


Wishbones and Butterflies

by BiancaAparo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Awesome Molly Hooper, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Smut, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-19 05:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3597888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiancaAparo/pseuds/BiancaAparo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"As long as she could remember, she had always been mistaken for being shy and timid. Mousy.<br/>Squeak, squeak… she wrote once on her blog..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reichenbach Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Can be read as a stand-alone or as a companion piece to "The Solitary Hunter" series. 
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
> :^)

Wishbones and Butterflies

_“Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be.”  
 -_ Clementine Paddleford

~*~*~

_One: The Reichenbach Fall_  
  
15 June 2011  
The Royal Hospital of St Bartholomew  
Wednesday afternoon  
3:16 PM

He sat there, in her chair, regal as any prince. Arrogant as an Olympian god.

She knelt before him, like a supplicant. Like a sacrifice.

She ran her hands up the back of his calf.

“Molly.”

A flush burned her pale cheeks when _That_ _Voice_ rumbled out her name. Silky and resonant with just a touch of condescension, a voice that always sent shivers down her spine. Not in all of her wildest, filthiest fantasies did she dare to dream she’d be kneeling in front of her _objet d'affection_ as he said her name _._

And most definitely, not like this. Not sequestered in her mouse-hole of an office in the morgue of St. Barts.

“Sorry,” she huffed, fumbling with the buckles of the shin guard again.

These weren’t ordinary shin guards, not like the ones her brothers had worn when they had played football in primary and secondary school. These were heavy-duty; the outside was made out of aluminum and the interior was lined with some sort of sponge padding. They made her think of the American lumberjacks she had seen on some sort of reality television program she had watched once. Or maybe they were Canadian.

Not like that detail mattered, at any rate.

She wiped her sweaty hands on her khakis slacks and then ran them back up Sherlock’s trouser leg again. Her face heated up even more as she tried to ignore the strange intimacy of this insane situation.

“By all means, take your time,” Sherlock told her, his voice astringent as ever.

For the first time, Molly found she was not offended by his rudeness. He had cut her down several times with his sharp tongue. Had her in tears more than once in the past, actually. Today, she felt surreally unaffected by his cruelty.

_He’s scared_ , she told herself as she finally got the buckles of the metal shin guard to cooperate. _For the first time in probably forever, he’s actually really scared. He can’t completely control what’s going to happen next. He can’t deduce, predict, whatever… he can’t make Jim bend completely to his will…_

Her mouth and throat went immediately dry at that thought.

She tugged the trouser leg over his leg and surveyed the effect. One would have to have the observational skills of Sherlock Holmes to notice the trouser legs looked a bit tight, the cloth stretching over the knee pads and shin guards. The same with his shirt, the buttons looked ready to fly off at any moment as the fabric pulled tautly over the protective vest he had on underneath. But he always wore tight shirts, so straining buttons would not be an unusual sight.

She brushed a bit of fluff off the turn-ups before rising to her feet. “OK,” she took a step away from him, jamming her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. She swallowed hard, wishing for a glass of water.

“The neck guard,” he flapped his hand towards a strange, black plastic ring on her desk.

She had never seen anything like it. Apparently American ice hockey players wore them to protect their necks during their games. The outside was a sturdy but flexible plastic. The inside was a soft knit lining. As she picked up the unfamiliar circular object, she felt a strange flight of fancy overcome her.

For a minute, she felt like she was about to place a crown on top of his curly head.

Instead, she fastened it around his neck like a collar.

“Can you move your head?” she asked.

He tilted his head left to right then circled it around. “It’s a bit snug, but I can tolerate it.”

He rose elegantly from her office chair, still playing the role of the spoiled brat prince. But his actions did nothing to erase the anxiety shimmering in his strange pale eyes. The fear in his eyes reminded her too damn much of her father. Each man had put up a brave front for his loved ones, just in very, very different ways. But the fear in each man’s eyes was the same.. He reached for his suit jacket and tried to put it on but Molly said “Here, let me.” Standing on the very tips of her toes, Molly helped him pull the jacket on. But when Sherlock pointed at the Belstaff and blue-and-purple checked scarf, she balked. “Sherlock it’s summer. He’ll… he’ll wonder why you’re wearing a winter coat. Plus, you’ll swelter underneath all those clothes.”

“The coat and scarf are obviously required to conceal the protective gear. As I wear my coat and scarf nearly year round, it will not be remarked upon why I am still wearing it in June,” he reminded her coolly. Then he smiled grimly. “Believe me, this will not take long.”

Molly felt sick, felt her well-ordered, quiet world tilt. “Do you…  I mean… Sherlock, _jumping_ … I just… is there no other way?” She found herself begging as he lost patience and crossed the small space to retrieve his beloved coat and scarf. “There has to be another way… this… it’s so… I mean…” she watched him toss the Belstaff into her chair. “I just…”

“Do you wish to be released from your promise to assist me?” he asked her in a clipped voice.

“No.”

He lifted his eyebrows at her, clearly annoyed now.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt… or worse, Sherlock,” she finally breathed.

His expression didn’t change. “Jumping is the last resort, Molly,” he scoffed. “It’s the thirteenth possibility. I’m quite confident I can outwit Moriarty, coax him down from the roof (at which I manipulated him into meeting me, by the way) and then turn him in to Lestrade, therefore proving that Richard Brook is a fraud and Jim Moriarty is quite real.”

But when he held his scarf out to Molly, she saw his hands trembling.

She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t _brave,_ at least, not anymore _._  Maybe she was once, when she was a little girl. Her brothers had all agreed she was tough, _for a girl_ , when they were younger. But life had whittled away at her bravery. The last bit of strength she had left had been sapped by her father’s debilitating and lingering illness. After he had finally shuffled off his mortal coil, she felt like she didn’t have any backbone left. Something in her had been irrevocably broken.

So when she saw the Great Detective’s hands shake, she started to sob.  

She reached for the scarf but clasped her fingers around his hands instead. She braced herself for the inevitable insults.

Instead, his long fingers curled around hers, and brought her hands to his lips. He grazed her knuckles with a kiss, more of a breath than a proper kiss. Then he continued to hold her hands in his, as if they were praying together. Not that either one of them were really religious. He was too logical and she was too angry to really believe in God.

“I will be alright, Molly Hooper.”

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

“You will,” Molly snuffled. Then she made herself smile. Made herself sound like _herself_. “You will. You’ll be brilliant. You’ll show them. You’ll show the lot of them.”

A spark of his usual arrogance flickered in his eyes. “Of course I will. The idiots,” he purred, letting her hands go. “John must be back at Baker Street by now. He will have figured out my lie by now and is on his way back here.” He started winding the scarf around his neck. “Mustn’t delay this much longer, Moriarty is probably already on the roof waiting for me.”

Molly gulped and helped arrange the scarf to better hide the neck guard. He thumbed the tears off her cheeks. She nodded, and tried again to smile, producing one of her stretched-out, too-big smiles as she always did when horribly nervous.

After helping him pull on the Belstaff, she took a step back from him again and studied him. Really studied his appearance then reached up to pop his coat collar. She nodded, allowing herself to grip the lapels of his coat for a second, wishing she could hug him instead. She let go. “OK. It’s good. Your big swishy coat covers everything up. He’s going to be so busy trying to play his sick little game with you… he’s… he’s not going to notice what you’re wearing. Not that… you know, you’re going to need all that padding. Right?”

“Right,” he mumbled, as if distracted. Then he lifted his head. “Right,” he said, more resolutely. Then, at his usual rapid-fire pace, he ordered her, “The waiting will be the worst bit. But it is imperative that you stay here, no matter what. No matter what you may hear in the hallway or on the telly or radio. Stay. Here. Do not leave with anyone other than me, my brother or one of my Homeless Network operatives. You will know him by this,” he took a squash ball out of his coat pocket. “Stay. Down. Here. No matter what your misplaced loyalty dictates that you should do. I want you to stay in here. Door locked. Stay away from the roof. Stay away from windows. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

He turned and with a dramatic swirl of his coat, was gone. Without so much as a thank you.

Or good-bye.

Molly went to lock the door behind him. Her small hand rested on the door knob.

He had warned her that the waiting would be the worst bit.

He had also warned her to stay clear of the windows, not to watch.

She wrenched the door knob open and ran towards the lifts.

The waiting _was_ the worst bit. The lifts seemed to take longer than usual. And it seemed to stop at every damn floor with people getting on and getting off. Doctors looking important holding their charts and wearing pristine lab coats. Nurses wearing their brightly-colored scrubs, looking tired and harried while carrying trays. And the visitors, some holding cheerful bouquets, others crumpled, damp handkerchiefs.

Molly could have screamed her frustration out loud. Instead she settled for gnawing her lower lip and clenching and unclenching her fists.

No one noticed her. No one ever really did. 

She did not go to the roof, but she did sneak into a posh conference room on one of the upper floors. Carefully, she half-opened the blinds so she could look out but no one could see in.

Peering between the slits of the blinds, she looked down and sucked in a breath. She wanted to cry again when she saw John Watson on his mobile. She watched him look up at the roof in horror. She couldn’t see his facial expressions, but his body language was crystal-clear, even from her distance.

_Don’t. Don’t do this. Stop this…_

Fear scooted over to make room for doubt, tainting her resolve. _I don’t know if I can do this…I’m not… I’m just… I don’t know… why does Sherlock trust me? I’m not bold, I’m not daring…_

As long as she could remember, she had always been mistaken for being shy and timid. Mousy.

_Squeak, squeak…_ she wrote once on her blog.

Her childhood “frenemy” Natalie had dubbed her “Molly Lolly” during their fifth year at primary school. “Because you’re so sweet,” she had purred in that malevolent way only spoilt ten-year-old girls could. “Molly Lolly” stuck like flypaper to her all throughout the rest of primary school and even through secondary school. It took university to shake off the stupid nickname. It took med school to shake off Natalie.

“Oh, pathology?” Natalie had asked her archly. “So, you’re not even going to be a proper doctor? You’re going to be poking about dead people? How morbid, I couldn’t stand it. But then, I suppose you don’t have to chat with a stiff like you’d have to with a live patient, do you?”

Molly had fumed but the good manners her mum had drilled into her precluded her from sniping back. She just said “OK,” in that high-pitched voice she had always used to hide her wounded feelings. She had awkwardly changed the subject to Natalie’s pending nuptials, pretending to be interested and failing miserably. Dessert was skipped, air kisses were exchanged. Promises to do this again were made.

After that, Molly had conveniently become too busy to ever have lunch with Natalie whenever she was in London. After her dad passed away and Mum moved to Cheltenham, Molly had no reason to visit her old village, where Natalie still lived.

But Natalie had still made her the maid of honor, which meant that Molly would have to return the favor someday. If that day ever came, that was.

“Of course,” Natalie had snottily pointed out during one of the tiresome wedding dress fittings. “You would have to come out of your little shell and chat up a bloke, if you want to ever meet someone. You’re such a funny, shy thing. Have you thought about online dating? Or I can fix you up with my cousin Marc since you’re too bashful to ask someone out on your own.”

Molly hated how people thought she was bashful and nervous. Yes, she hesitated, but it was because her thoughts in her head fluttered around and around like a thousand brightly colored butterflies. Before she spoke, she to pick the right thought to explain and then to correctly describe the idea flying around her head before it flew out of her mouth.

Unfortunately, most of the time, she found herself stammering, backtracking and inevitably tongue-tied. Feeling flustered by not being about to express herself the way she wanted to, she ended up retreating as her cheeks heated up.

Her brothers would all agree she was not shy and definitely not quiet. Her eldest brother once bragged to his mates, “She’s just as brave as any bloke,” when Molly had been the one who climbed up the tree to get Mrs. Crawley’s frightened cat down.  The boys had been doubly-impressed when Molly didn’t cry when Mrs. Fuzzybritches had sunk her claws and then her teeth into Molly’s freckled arms. A grateful Mrs. Crawley had cooed over Molly as she applied polysporin and cotton wool to the cat bites and scratches Molly had received for her trouble.

But that had been an easy problem to solve. She hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t shuffled from foot to foot. She had merely pushed her way through the crowd of boys and started her climb up.

Not all problems had such a clear cut resolution.

Molly herself would admit that her fatal flaw was not shyness but rather prevarication. Always, she dithers. Always, she over-thinks. Always, she analyzes before acting because everything needs to be in perfect order. Everything needs to be _right_.

And yet… and yet, she had stared straight into those opalescent eyes that saw everything and revealed nothing and she had asked him “What do you need?” without a second of indecision. 

_You…_

Suddenly everything was happening outside the window too fast. A flash of black hurtled from the sky towards the ground. As Sherlock plummeted past her window, his great black coat flapping up behind him as he fell, John started shouting and running towards the hospital. Molly backed away from the window, hand over her mouth.

_He jumped…_ tears immediately sprang to her eyes. _He jumped_.

A scream had been lodged in her throat. It must have been stopped by her heart.

He had told her he would have to jump if there was no alternative, if there was no other way…

Then she realized that there had never been any other way. It was always going to end like this.

He had also told her to _stay in her office_ and wait for Mycroft. 

Molly quickly spun away from the window. She ran, her lab coat fluttering behind her, tears threatening again. She told herself she mustn’t cry, mustn’t cry, _must not cry_. Not now. She had to save her tears, to be able to weep when someone (probably that nice D.I., the grey-haired fellow who had been at that awful Christmas party last year…) delivered the bad news.

She had to act surprised when she was told about the “suicide.”

Then pure, unadulterated terror had turned her blood to ice. _If Sherlock had jumped… where was  Jim?_

She started sprinting, her soft-soled Skechers squeaking against the linoleum, her pony-tail streaming behind her like a racehorse’s tail. She could hear the commotion behind her, telephones ringing, people asking what was going on. She ignored the noise and bolted for the lifts again but stopped dead in her tracks. A nightmare vision had flashed in front of her eyes, of the lift doors opening and Jim fixing his doe-eyes on her, smiling at her. _Hello, lovely… did you miss me?_

She immediately pivoted and darted for the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time until she was out of breath. Her stomach rocked back and forth as she made herself run down the stairs. Still, she pushed herself, even when her calves and her quads had started protesting, the muscles burning, her eyes burning, her heart on fire, being burned out of her.

She had barely gotten inside her office in time. Not to cry but to vomit. Her hands shook so badly she had barely been able to lock the door. Then she dropped to her knees again and grabbed her little rubbish bin just as her lunch came back up.

She wiped her mouth with her hand and pressed her back up against her desk as she rubbed the stitch in her side. She then rested her head on her knees and sobbed, holding her mouth tightly shut. It wouldn’t do if anyone could hear her. She grabbed her head, mussing up her pony-tail as the following mantra repeated like a sad refrain _Don’t be dead, don’t be dead, don’t be dead, don’t be dead…_

She didn’t know how long she sat there, huddled by her desk, wrapping her lab coat around her like a child’s security blanket. Her lab coat was her security blanket. It was her suit of armor, her declaration to the world. _I’m a doctor too! Take me seriously!_

And she usually was taken seriously. Until she opened her mouth and the stammers and stutters started. The speech impediment had been her cross since childhood and had been far, far worse when she was very small. But her parents and brothers had understood her and that was  all she had ever needed.

Maybe Sherlock had understood her as well.

Maybe he just wanted a friendly face to see before he…

_Don’t be dead, don’t be dead, don’t be dead, don’t be dead…_

The gentle rap on the door made her jerk her head up.

“Dr. Hooper?” an unfamiliar but kind voice said softly. “I have his squash ball.”

Molly inhaled a shuddery breath and made herself stand up. She felt like the little mermaid trying out her legs for the first time as she walked to the office door. Her hands still shook as she fumbled to unlock it.

She opened it just a crack. Saw a tall and surprisingly handsome man with longish blond hair, holding a squash ball. The same ball Sherlock had been playing with before he rowed with Dr. Watson to make him leave St. Bart’s.

Molly felt sick again. _Dr. Watson…_

Doubt did more than taint her well of resolve, it threatened to poison the entire reservoir.

_I can’t do this. I can’t lie to Dr. Watson like this. He won’t believe me, he’ll see right through me._

Without waiting for her to speak, he said, “He’s alive. In bad shape. But alive. He said you’ll know what to do next. Do it and then come back here and wait for Mycroft. Do not leave with anyone other than Mycroft Holmes, OK?”

She nodded. He started pushing the ball through the crack of the door and she took it. “And… and… Jim? What happened to Jim?”

“Dead,” he told her.

“Dead?” Molly nearly dropped the squash ball. “Then… why… what, I don’t understand.”

“Mycroft will explain it, I have to go,” he said tersely. But upon observing her puffy eyes, he softened. “When the morgue attendants come get you, tell him someone had already called you with the bad news. You have to be the one to identify the body. Not John Watson. If he tries to come down here, you have to figure a way to keep him away.”

“I know,” Molly whispered and shut the door.

Still shaken, Molly sat down at her desk and tried to touch up her make-up. Then decided against it, decided it would be pointless. She did, however, wipe the streaks of mascara off her cheeks and put her pony-tail back to rights.  

So she looked red-eyed and somber when the morgue attendant came for her. “Dr. Hooper?” he said, almost shyly. “I don’t know how to tell you this. I’m afraid I have... news. Bad news.”

“I know,” she didn’t have to fake sounding upset. Her voice cracked of its own accord. “I was called already.”

“They need someone to ID the body, the coppers,” he kept his voice respectfully hushed. “His boyfriend’s no good, he’s in shock.”

Molly didn’t bother correcting him. “I can do it,” she stood up. “Take me to him, please.”

“Are… are you sure?”

She nodded. “He… Sherlock, that is, wouldn’t want his parents or his brother to see… this,” she rose from her desk. “So it has to be me, hasn’t it?”

She had no idea how Sherlock felt about his parents. And she really didn’t like his elder brother. He creeped her out. But apparently, Mycroft Holmes was going to be her new best friend.

“Right, yeah…well, let’s get it over with then.”

“Yeah,” Molly jammed her hands in her lab coat again. She touched the squash ball inside her pocket, as if it were some sort of good luck talisman and followed the attendant.

The body was on a slab, covered by a sheet. “The police aren’t here yet?” Molly asked, knowing full well why the police weren’t there yet and what the attendant was going to say.

Or so she thought.

“They thought… well, D.I. Lestrade said to give you a minute of privacy. To say good-bye.”

Molly found herself strangely touched by the gesture. She knew the police would be somehow manipulated into letting Molly be alone with the body. Still, she thought it was very kind for the nice D.I. from that terrible Christmas party to suggest giving her a moment alone to say good-bye to her strange, erratic, often-verbally abusive friend.

Sherlock had also told her Lestrade was not in on the plan, so she knew the D.I.’s suggestion was from the heart.

Compulsively she squeezed the squash ball he had been playing with before meeting her ex-boyfriend on the roof. With her heart in her throat, knowing what she had to do next, she said, “OK, if I can have a minute. Then the police can come. Then…” she swallowed hard. “Then I want to do the autopsy. I insist.”

“Molly, I mean, Doctor… that’s… he’s…”

“He’s not my next of kin,” she said swiftly. “And, I have to know if he was in his right mind. Maybe he fell off the wagon again and was under the influence of drugs. Or maybe, if he really was suicidal, there was a reason. Maybe he had a terminal disease he was hiding from us all… I just… I have to know why and I have to be the one to find out. He would want that. He’d think of it as…” Molly faltered then fumbled. “As… as…well, you know… some sort of… ah, I don’t know… err… a present.”

Her carefully wrapped Christmas present for him had popped into her head just then.

“A present?” the morgue attendant said skeptically.

“Yes!” Molly seized upon her faux pas, “A final present to me. One last puzzle to solve.”

“That’s… fucked up, beg your pardon, doc.”

“That’s Sherlock,” she said brightly. Then realized her voice sounded too happy so she immediately covered her face to hide _that_ mistake. “Ohhh…” she moaned out.

“I’ll… um, yeah. I’ll give you some time,” the attendant said, clearly uncomfortable now.

The minute she was alone, Molly dropped the Grieving Friend Act and strode over towards the covered body. She pulled the sheet back and saw a tall man with curly black hair and a long face that was not Sherlock. He had been pulled from the Thames last night. Sherlock had been studying the body shortly before he had asked Molly for her help.

He had deduced this was the Sherlock-look-alike Jim Moriarty had hired to frighten the kidnapped American ambassador’s children. Jim would be tying up loose ends before commencing with his _magnus opus_. He definitely did not want anyone who could prove Richard Brook was fake staying alive.

Molly wondered who else Jim had threatened. Or killed.

She shuddered then got to work.

She needed a hair sample and a blood sample for DNA testing so Mycroft’s shadowy people could find out the true identity of this villain. Then she needed to make some… adjustments to the body so no one would question her false autopsy report.

The reality of the situation started sinking in. _I could lose my job, my license…_

_My life... for a lie, for a man who has always been so cruel to me..._   

 She reached under the slab for the hammer the real Sherlock had taped underneath for her.

She held the hammer over the unidentified man’s face. “Sorry,” she whispered and brought the hammer down on his eye socket, his nose and his cheek bone. The crunch of bone made her wince. She smacked the corpse’s face once more for good measure, recalling the first time she had seen the Great Detective, lashing a corpse with a riding crop.

She didn’t know what possessed her to ask him for a coffee. Or why her infatuation lingered, even after that ghastly Christmas party. Especially after that ghastly Christmas party.

She wiped the hammer off with a tissue then shucked off her lab coat. She reached around her back and tucked it in the waistband of her trousers, like how gangsters tucked guns into their jeans in mobster films. Then she whipped her lab coat back on and pulled the sheet back over the corpse’s head just as the police came in.

Her heart dropped from her throat to her feet. D.I. Lestrade was with them along with Sergeant Sally Donovan.  Lestrade’s eyes were bright with tears but Donovan merely looked stunned.

“I didn’t think he’d do it,” she said simply, “Didn’t think the freak would jump.”

 Molly opened her mouth but the D.I. beat her to it. “Out,” he said in a soft, icy voice. He held his lips in a thin, tight line. He looked like he wanted to hit Donovan.   

“Yes,” Molly squeaked. “You should go, both of you. I’m sorry,” she said kindly to the D.I. “But… you were close to him, really close to him. I just worked with him from time to time… on cases. We weren’t… friends. Not like you and him. You… don’t want to remember him like this.”

“It’s really him then?” the officer next to Lestrade said, her voice hushed and awed.

“Yes,” Molly lowered her eyes. “We’ll do it properly, the identification… but…” she struggled to think of a believable lie. Then she looked up at Lestrade and gave him a sympathetic smile. She wanted to cross over and hug him. Whisper in his ear that Sherlock’s OK but mum’s the word.

Instead, she said, “You should be with Dr. Watson. He’s… he’s probably a wreck.”

Lestrade swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He ran his hand through his silvery hair. “Yeah… OK… Sally,” his voice wasn’t as cold as it was before but he still narrowed his eyes at her. “Come on. You don’t need to be here either.”

“But-”

“You’ve done enough.” His voice went cold again.

Molly watched the heart-broken D.I. and the shocked sergeant slip out the door. “Right…” she said, stepping away from the body. “Let’s do this…”

She identified the body as Sherlock Holmes.

She performed the autopsy. The real cause of death was strangulation. The windpipe was crushed and there were tell-tale bruises around his neck. Someone (probably Sherlock) had wound a blue-and-purple checked scarf around the corpse’s neck to hide the bruising. The body also wore the same suit as Sherlock had been wearing.

She falsified the autopsy results. Immediate cause of death, broken neck caused by a fall.

Possible suicide.

She signed the false report and filed it.

It was very late when she trundled back to her little office. She wanted to go home. Get into her most comfortable pair of pyjamas, cuddle her kitty and binge-watch _Glee_.

She opened her office door and saw Mycroft Holmes sitting in her office chair. His umbrella rested on top of her desk.

She had only met him once before. After that ghastly Christmas party, when Sherlock’s mobile emitted a woman’s erotic moan. His text alert, alerting him he had received a text. A text telling him Irene Adler was dead. A woman he had identified by… not her face.

Mycroft Holmes had hovered in the background. She had felt like a dwarf, standing next to two tall men as she’d pulled down the sheet covering Miss Adler’s body.

Mycroft had ignored her then. He studied her fixedly now.

“Well?”

There was something dry, nearly antiseptic about his voice.

Molly felt dislike flood her. Sherlock was his little brother, wasn’t he? Shouldn’t he be more… concerned? She knew her big brothers would be up in arms if something were to happen to her. 

_Cold fish_ she thought contemptuously as she said “I did everything Sherlock told me to do.”

“Except,” he tented his fingers, just like his baby brother. “Stay away from the window.”

Molly blanched but didn’t defend herself.

“Right,” Mycroft sighed, lifting himself out of Molly’s chair when he realized she wasn’t going to say anything. “Collect your things, Miss Hooper and come with me.”

“ _Doctor_ Hooper,” she corrected him.

He ignored her.

They slipped unnoticed from the hospital, sneaking out of an ambulance bay. They walked undetected and got into a waiting black town car.

As the vehicle pulled away from the kerb, Mycroft finally gave her the details she needed.

“Before he succumbed to unconsciousness, Sherlock told me Jim Moriarty did not merely target John Watson, but also D.I. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. If Sherlock did not jump from the roof, then Jim would have John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson simultaneously murdered. Just as Sherlock thought he could outwit him, Moriarty pulled out a gun and shot himself in the head. When he killed himself, he couldn’t call off the hits. The only way the murders could be prevented, was if Sherlock jumped.”

Molly felt sick again. Jim had been to her house. Sat on her couch, petted her cat. Drank tea and watched television with her.

“Why?” Molly started shivering. “Why would Jim do such a thing?”

“He was bored,” Mycroft said flatly. “It was a game, good sport for Jim. Loads of fun, tormenting my brother,” Mycroft’s lips thinned.

Molly softened towards the thin man with the receding hairline and coal-black eyes sitting across from her. Maybe he was hurting for his brother. Maybe he just showed it differently. Or maybe he didn’t have the luxury of showing his feelings at all.

“What now?” Molly asked. “How long does Sherlock have to… stay dead?”

“Assuming he pulls through tonight,” Mycroft shrugged. “Two years, maybe three.”

Molly wrapped her arms around her waist and looked out the window. But they were heavily tinted so there was nothing to see.

She lost track of time and location. When the car stopped, someone from the outside opened her car door. She got out on wobbly legs, feeling certain she was going to be sick again.

Sherlock didn’t tell her about this part of the plan.

Mycroft addressed the young woman who had opened the car door, “Anthea, lead the way.”

They had been in some sort of underground car park. They stepped into a lift and rode up in silence. When the lift doors opened, the woman called Anthea said, “Third door to the left,” and pulled her mobile out, beginning to text rapidly.

Mycroft gestured to Molly with his umbrella that she should get out. _Ladies first_.  

“Right,” Molly mumbled as she fairly skipped out of the lift. Looking around, it seemed like she was in some sort of non-descript hotel. Pleasant, but not posh.

“You will take a leave of absence,” Mycroft suddenly informed her, making her jump almost out of her skin.

“What?”

“You’re overcome with grief, it was a mistake for you to perform the autopsy,” he continued on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “You will stay here during your leave. Once Sherlock doesn’t require around the clock care and can begin physical therapy, then you may go back to work, but you need to come back _here_.”

“Hang on,” she burst out. “You… you can’t… I mean. I’m not… It’s…”

“You have no clue how dangerous your ex-boyfriend really was, do you, madam?” Mycroft’s voice oozed with condescension.

“I twigged on when I watched the newscasts during The Crime of the Century trials,” Molly argued hotly. “Anyway, you can’t make me _stay_ here. You’re not the King, you can’t tell me what to do. I have… I have… a job and friends and… and… a cat,” she finished lamely.

“Molly, he _needs_ you,” Mycroft’s voice lost the patronizing tone. “I need you too. I need someone I can trust.” Then he sighed dramatically. “And we’ll find someone to take care of your cat during your absence.”

“Get John Watson,” she said desperately.

“To feed your cat?”

“No! To tend to Sherlock! He’s a medical doctor, an actual GP after all. I’m… well, I’m not trained to deal with live bodies. Not really. Any rate, John would be overjoyed to learn Sherlock’s alive and…”

“And he’ll blog about it or tell one of his insipid dates and get himself and my brother killed,” Mycroft shook his head. “John Watson is a decent man. Decent men do not survive in environments like this. They have no tolerance for living in the shadows.”

“What does that say about me?” Molly’s voice shook.

“You’re not a decent man, _Doctor_ Hooper.”

“What am I then?”

“A stupid girl infatuated with my brother,” Mycroft said bluntly. “A weakness I plan to exploit quite shamelessly. He survived the fall, yes, but he still suffered severe injuries.”

“How bad,” Molly fought to keep her voice steady, professional-sounding. But Mycroft’s words cut her more deeply than Sherlock’s insults ever did. Sherlock’s jibes, she eventually learned, were from impatience and lack of social skills.

Mycroft was just _mean_.

“Broken pelvis, lacerated liver and kidney,” he told her dispassionately, “Plus about a half-dozen other broken bones. Oh and a chipped tooth,” he added as an after-thought. “He’s in a full body brace at the moment, heavily sedated. When he comes to,” he smiled at her. “Oh you will have a bear on your hands.”

“Why?”

“He can’t move and he’ll be bored. You do the arithmetic,” he purred.

But when Sherlock finally woke up properly, he wasn’t like a bear at all.  

Molly hadn’t even realized it at first, when he opened his eyes. She had been sitting at his bedside, re-reading _Pride and Prejudice_ just for the sake of having something to do. Then she felt that prickly sensation of _being watched_.

She turned her head and looked down. Saw the Great Detective’s  strange blue-green-gold irises for the first time in days. Granted, they were still puffy, blackened and ringed like a raccoon, but they were open.

“Hey!” she put the book down and clasped the bed rail. If this strange building had been an old hotel, Mycroft’s shadowy people did a fantastic job converting this particular room into a state-of-the-art hospital room. It was definitely better than St. Bart’s at any rate.

He had broken his left wrist but Molly sat on his right side. So he was able to reach her, touch her. Even though his face twisted in pain as he did so, he lifted his hand just high enough to place his palm on top of her hand. He closed his eyes for a moment and Molly thought he had passed out. But his eyelids fluttered open and his eerie eyes locked on her face.

Then, miraculously, he _smiled_.

“Told you I was going to be alright,” he said in a faint, cracking voice.

Molly half-laughed, half-sobbed, “Oh yeah, you really showed them,” she clasped her free hand on top of his, “Brilliant plan, Sherlock.”

Then she asked him if he wanted some ice chips. When he nodded, she slipped her hands from his then bent down to kiss his brow. “I’ll be right back.”

“I know,” his eyelids drooped shut again. “I knew I could count on you, Molly Hooper.”  

Molly smiled as she felt hope fluttering in her chest. Like a butterfly gliding through a barren wasteland… Maybe… just maybe… her heart’s dearest wish could come true yet.


	2. The Great Hiatus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A deep voice intoned, “Leave the lights off,” from the vicinity of her sofa.
> 
> Molly jumped about a foot, not because she didn’t recognize That Voice, but because she did..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will be adding tags as I go along. 
> 
> Happy Sunday! :^)

14 February 2013  
Molly Hooper’s residence  
Friday early morning  
6:21 AM

Weary from a long night at the morgue, Molly didn’t bother to stop at her postbox before plodding up to her lonely little flat. There was no point. Not as if there were going to be any Valentines in there, if one excluded the well-intentioned card from Mum.

Besides, most people sent Valentines via e-mail or Facebook these days anyway.

And Molly’s mobile didn’t ping with any notifications. Not once. Not even a text.

She did receive a text yesterday. A cancellation, actually. She and John Watson had made plans to have a drink and bite to eat on Valentine’s Day. Neither one of them fancied sitting home alone that night. But yesterday she got a very apologetic text from John to please call her, which resulted in a very apologetic John asking if it would be OK if they rescheduled. Sheepishly, he admitted he had Met Someone. Mary Morstan she was called. Funny. Sweet. Big blue eyes. Was a nurse at RHS. Met her at the pub the other night and she was great, is great and…well… he’d like to take her out for Valentine’s Day… if that was OK with Molly. If it wasn’t he would understand and let Mary know he would take her out some other time...

“Actually, forget it. Forget I called,” John had said in a rush. “I’m being a crap friend. Rude, trying to cancel on you just because I met a girl, forgive me Molly. Wasn’t thinking straight. I’ll ring her back and ask if she has plans for the Friday following Valentine’s Day. Rubbish holiday anyway, Valentine’s Day…”

Molly knew she should be peeved that her friend was cancelling on her last minute like this…

But it was the first time in ages that John had sounded like himself. First time he had sounded _alive_. Molly couldn’t find it within herself to be angry. She scolded John for being silly and _of course_ he should ring Mary and ask her out on a proper date. She gave John some restaurant suggestions, places she always thought sounded romantic. Places she had always hoped someone would take her…  

She also had reminded John to buy Mary flowers. Really put on the dog if he truly fancied her.

Anyone who could bring John back to life after The Fall had to be really special, after all.

So Molly signed up for an extra shift at Barts that day and of course, some arsehole had to leave the pub absolutely pissed and cause a four-car pile-up with fatalities in Westminister right before her second shift ended.

Some people really were just thoughtless twats.

After befriending John Watson, Molly’s vocabulary had gotten a bit more colorful.

She hadn’t meant to become friends with John, especially with the secret she carried within her. Theirs was an accidental friendship, an accident caused by D.I. Lestrade.

About four months after the Fall, a healthy twenty-seven year old man just abruptly dropped dead right smack middle of King’s Cross. Scared the piss out of the tourists taking pictures of Platform 9 ¾. Lestrade had accompanied the body to Barts. She had been elbows deep in guts and intestines, trying to suss out the cause of death when Lestrade had idly made the comment this was the kind of case Sherlock would have liked. Molly had politely asked how Dr. Watson was doing and Lestrade hadn’t sugar-coated it. “He’s struggling, Dr. Hooper. He’s… well, he’s bloody miserable. I try to talk to him, but… hey, why don’t you give him a ring? Bet he’d like that. You two could swap old war stories. Talk about all the horrifying things Sherlock had said. And did. And set on fire.”

“Oh I don’t know,” Molly had dithered, but not for the reasons Lestrade had thought.

“Molly, err, may I call you Molly?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What happened with Sherlock… it really, well. It shattered him. He’s my friend, but I can’t put the pieces back together by myself.”

Molly had then realized the D.I. was asking for her help.

And Sherlock would want someone taking care of Dr. Watson in his absence. The good doctor was the Great Detective’s best mate, wasn’t he?

So Molly had tentatively called the grieving doctor and managed to pry him out of his drunken cow of a sister’s flat. The first few times they had met for coffee had been supremely awkward not to mention wretchedly sad. But he had never cried, never shed one tear in front of her.

Molly wished he had. Then wished she could tell him _There’s nothing to cry over, silly. He’s alive and well. It was all a magic trick._  

But she couldn’t, but she persevered. Eventually the awkwardness dissipated and the sadness became an undercurrent instead of a crashing wave. Coffee became pints and Dr. Watson became John and Sherlock stopped dominating their conversations. They talked shop, she of autopsy bays and he of surgical theaters. They talked about films and crap telly and dogs versus cats. She moaned about her lack of boyfriends and he entertained her with stories about his ex-girlfriends. Some of them had been real pieces of work.

And now John had met a nice girl. He took her to a romantic dinner at a posh restaurant on Valentine’s Day. If she was Miss Right, she would have said yes to John’s request for a second date. Then John would play the gentleman and have a taxi take her to her home. If she was Miss Right Now, John would have taken her back to his place.

Either way, John probably had a very good night.

And Molly was going to have a cuppa and toast and beans, then crawl into bed with her cat.  

Somehow, it didn’t seem fair.

But when she stepped into her flat and shut the door, a deep voice intoned, “Leave the lights off,” from the vicinity of her sofa.

Molly jumped about a foot, not because she didn’t recognize _That Voice_ , but because she did.

She bolted the door and hurried over to the sofa to see a thin, long-haired, scruffy man stretched out on her sofa. Fingers tented, eyes closed.

“Draw the drapes,” he murmured.

Molly obeyed, dropping her handbag and rucksack. Once her flat was safe from the prying eyes of the world, Sherlock slowly sat up and switched on the small lamp on the in-table next to her sofa. “Hello Molly Hooper,” he sounded genuinely happy to see her.

As he slowly stood up, Molly approached him. She opened her arms then froze. “Is it… are you… can I?”

The last time he had showed up unexpectedly in her flat, Molly had crushed him in a bear hug and he had cried out in pain. Turned out, he had an altercation in America that left him with bruised ribs. He hadn’t been fully healed quite yet when he had slipped back into London.

“Yes, of course.”

He barely got the words out as Molly enveloped him in an enormous hug. “Oh, I’m so pleased to see you, Sherlock,” her voice shook as she ran her hand over his hair.

“Please do not cry,” but his voice didn’t hold its usual disdain.

“Let me have a look at you,” she knew she sounded like a fussy old granny but she didn’t give a fig. “Oh God, your hair, it’s getting really long now.”

He rolled his eyes. “I know, I’d give my eyeteeth for a proper hair cut, but it’s been a useful disguise, actually,” he pushed the long black curls over his shoulders.

He looked thinner than ever and absolutely exhausted. His clothes were completely shabby, faded jeans, a worn-out jumper, scuffed up black boots.

Molly had learned a long time ago not to ask where he had been or what he had been doing. “Well, I would commit murder if I could have gorgeous curls like this,” she reached up and captured a long black curl. Twirling it around her forefinger, she asked, “How much longer do you have to be in disguise? How much longer will you have to hide?”

“Mm, maybe six or eight more months,” Sherlock mused. “Six if everything goes well, eight if everything does not.”

“Really!” Molly stopped playing with Sherlock’s hair and clasped her hands together like an excited child. “Oh Sherlock, that’s wonderful. John will be ecstatic. So will Greg.”

“Who?”

“Um, D.I. Lestrade?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Sherlock mumbled then yawned.

“You’re knackered,” Molly took his hand. “Come on, we agreed there isn’t enough room for you on my sofa.”

“I’m filthy,” Sherlock still mumbled. “Need a shower.”

“Take a bath,” Molly suggested. “I’ll bring you a cuppa and I’ll throw your clothes in the wash.”

She figured he might enjoy the little luxuries she took for granted.

Plus, she liked fussing over him, during his impromptu visits.

She knew she acted like a little girl playing Wendy Houses whenever he showed up on her doorstep (or rather, broke into her flat and camped out on her sofa) but still, it was nice. It made her feel good and it made him feel better.

She switched the kettle on and heated up some beans and made toast. She didn’t put any beans on his toast though, figured he didn’t want to eat sloppy food in the bath.

She tapped on the door and heard him rumble, “Come in.”

She toed the door open, carrying a plate of dry toast and a mug of chamomile tea. “Thought you might be peckish,” she told him, trying to avert her eyes from the long, lean figure in her tub.

Her tub was small, so he couldn’t stretch out properly. But he still managed to sink down into the water in what could only be described as pure bliss. He had put a wet flannel over his eyes and leaned his head back against the back of the tub. His knees and the suds concealed anything interesting, but there was nothing to hide the bare chest and the long, sinewy arms draped over the edge of the tub.

Not to mention the new scars and bruises on his torso.

Molly stifled a whimper. She hated, _hated_ how much he had been hurt since he’d “died.” And not just his body either, Molly could tell. He would have never permitted her to hug him or play with his hair or bring him tea in the old days. Before, he’d reveled in his superiority, his isolation. Now, he reviled his supremacy, his loneliness.

Even geniuses could starve for affection.

The scars and bruises were why Molly averted her eyes, not  modesty. She had briefly entertained a wild fantasy of stripping down to her bare skin then slipping into the bath while offering to wash his back…

… but she was afraid what scars she’d find there.

The thick jagged one on his torso was worrisome enough. She knew that was a knife wound.

So she put the mug and plate on the lid of the toilet so he could reach it. “Better drink that while it’s hot,” she advised him.

“Mmm, like cold tea,” he murmured.

Molly looked down at him again, his pale, battered, bare body. _If his body is this beaten up, what does his soul look like?_

Her heart hurt. She wanted to drop to her knees, beg him to not go back. To stay, to stay, _to stay_ … he didn’t even have to stay with her. Just, stay in London, stay safe, come back to life, come back to John…

“I can’t stay, you know that,” he droned, sounding like himself for the first time that morning.

A reluctant smile tugged at Molly’s lips. “You’ll stay for a few days, won’t you? Get rested up a bit? I’ll cook you a proper English breakfast.”

“I’m staying for a few days for The Work, not for your bribes of home cooking,” he growled.

“Of course,” Molly grinned. She never imagined she’d be glad to hear him be rude and nasty again, “Whatever you say, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Say that again.”

“Say what?”

“My name,” he didn’t sound like himself again. He sounded forlorn and almost childlike. “I haven’t heard someone call me that in so long…”

Molly did crouch down by the bathtub then. Heart pounding, she leaned as close she could to his face. _What am I doing?_ She screamed inside her head.

But out loud, she whispered, “Sherlock Holmes,” and pressed a kiss, butterfly light on his lips.

He drew in a breath. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I’m scared,” she said baldly, clutching the edge of the tub. “I’m afraid that one of these times you’ll leave and you won’t come back.”

He sat up, took the flannel off his eyes. “Molly,” he tilted her chin up at him with one long finger. “I will come home.”

Feeling her eyes burning, she took in the scars and the bruises and… “Is that a cigarette burn? Did someone bloody burn you with cigarettes?” When Sherlock sighed loudly and flopped back into the tub, splashing water everywhere, she snapped, “Don’t you dare discount my feelings, Sherlock Holmes! I have every right to be afraid.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” he groaned, looking away.

“Why not?”

“It makes it harder, what I must do, knowing you are worrying about me.”

“Are you sorry you told me? Or would you prefer I suffer like John Watson, thinking you’re dead in the ground?”

He rolled his head back towards her. “Did he really suffer? Truly?”

“Yes, of course he did. You’re his best friend.”

He looked away from her again. “I never thought I’d be anyone’s best friend.” 

Molly couldn’t stand it anymore. She rose, wiped her eyes with the back of her hands and said “Um, yeah, you better drink that tea before it’s stone cold. Toast’s probably getting cold too.”

As she turned to leave, he said “It was nice, though.”

“What,” she looked at him over her shoulder.

“The kiss, it was nice.” But before Molly could say anything else, he added sternly, “But do not do that again. Ever. Do you understand?”

She wished he hadn’t said that.

She wished she didn’t still care so much about him.

She wished she hadn’t said anything and just followed through with her little fantasy.

She was also glad she hadn’t followed through with that.

She wished she felt strong enough to tell him everything she was thinking and feeling. Wished she could just say what she wanted to say without stuttering and stammering like an idiot.

But he had probably deduced all of that already, hadn’t he?

He was still Sherlock Bloody Holmes, after all, wasn’t he?

So Molly merely nodded her head and went to put clean sheets on her bed for him.

Little did she know it would be the last time he stayed with her before his Resurrection.

And a week after Sherlock had left her for the last time during the Great Hiatus; she would meet a very nice bloke named Tom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments welcome! Thanks for reading. :^)


	3. The Sign of Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey now,” Tom growled, “Just because I’m not a genius doesn’t mean I’m an idiot!”
> 
> “YOU CALLED A FORK A MEAT DAGGER!”
> 
> “I GOT FLUSTERED!”
> 
> or "When Molly figured out Tom was a moron."

_Three: The Sign of Three_

9 August 2014  
The Watson Wedding Reception  
Saturday night   
9:48 PM

“Sherlock? Sherlock!”

Molly had tried to get to him in the dance hall, when she saw look of pure pleasure slide off his face to be replaced with that heartrending expression of sorrow she hadn’t seen since…

_You look sad... when you think he can't see you…_

She wasn’t even sure if she had excused herself to Tom properly when she had started her way towards him. But annoying purple and pink lights flashed on and off, making it hard to see. Plus everyone was dancing and drinking, it had been difficult to maneuver, to weave around the cheerful drunks, toasting to the Watsons’ future happiness. Thank God he was so tall. Otherwise she might have lost sight of him.

But she when she saw him slip out a side door, she hastily pushed her way through the crowd. She shouted “Sorry! So sorry! Sorry!” over the thumping bass whenever she accidentally bumped into someone. No one could hear her, of course. But they all gave her dirty looks when she trod on their toes or almost knocked their drinks out of their hands with her elbows.

Now she stood outside, bathed in the pink and purple disco lights flashing through the windows of the reception hall. In front of her, pitch blackness.

“Sherlock,” she tried again. She let her shoulders slump, feeling defeated for a moment. Then she immediately perked up. “Oh, of course, how stupid,” she said out loud as she turned to go back instead to fetch her mobile.

Only to nearly run smack into Tom. “Oh!” she steadied herself, grabbing his upper arm with one hand and placing the other on his chest. “Gosh, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Molly scrunched her eyebrows. She had never heard him sound so cold before. “Tom?”

He talked over her as if she had remained silent. “Sorry for stabbing me in the leg with a fork? Or ditching me for that… that…”

“He’s my friend, Tom,” Molly felt her back stiffening while thinking _Oh no, not this again_.

“Yeah, what a great friend,” he sneered. “If he’s such a great friend, what has he ever done for you?”

Molly opened her mouth then closed it.

“Thought so,” Tom took a step back from her. “And here you are, running after him like a fool.”

“I’m not a fool,” Molly informed him sharply, although at the moment, she felt like one. Standing there in her good yellow party frock, arguing with her fiancé instead of being inside, enjoying the party with… with who? Her friends? John was her friend, of course. Mary seemed lovely, but Molly didn’t know her, not really. Greg, of course, but his wedding ring was missing again. Had been for months, actually, which meant he’d be on the prowl. Chatting up the available and nubile bridesmaids. Not hanging around a pathologist.

In there, there were just loads of people who didn’t care about her one jot.

_You do count…_

“And people don’t have to _do_ things for them to be friends. That’s not how it works. It’s not like, I do you a favor, so now you owe me one,” Molly snapped.

“That’s not what I bloody meant and you know it. God, Molly, why can’t you just…”

“Just what?” Molly lowered her voice and narrowed her eyes. Balled her fists and stood up even straighter while squaring her shoulders. “Act like a normal girl? Have a regular job and be home by five o’clock with your tea and slippers?”

“Christ, not this again,” Tom ran his hand over his face. “This isn’t about me. This is about you, chasing down the ‘Great Detective.’ Can’t you see that he just uses you? Can’t you see how he forces you to risk your job, hell, even your life? All without giving one shit about you or your feelings. Just let him go, Molly, he doesn’t care about you.”

_You’re not being John. You’re being you._

“Yes, he does,” Molly dug her heels in. “He cares about me. He doesn’t show it in normal ways, but he does.”

“Oh, how do you know?”

_You count…_

“Because he wants me to act like _me_ ,” Molly pressed her fist tightly against her breastbone. “Have you even told your mum that I’m a pathologist? Or does she still think I’m just a doctor?”

“Mumma doesn’t understand, I told you,” Tom groaned. “She would think that your job is-”

“What? Creepy? Weird?” Molly raged at him. “There is nothing wrong with my job.”

“Come on. You have to admit it’s sort of morbid.”

“I bring closure and dignity to death,” Molly wanted to slap him, feeling tears surging. “I help people say goodbye to their loved ones. Sometimes, I even help the police bring a murderer to justice. There is nothing _morbid_ about that.”

“You put brains in metal pans!”

“Oh God, you are such a filthy hypocrite. You process foreclosure paperwork for the Bank of England. Taking away someone’s home, now that’s morbid.”

“How unfair of you to say that,” Tom yelled. “I don’t just take away homes!”

“And I just don’t chop people up and put their brains in pans!” Molly yelled right back at him. “That’s why Sherlock’s my friend. He sees me, really sees me. I’m not invisible, I’m not wallpaper. He knows what I do matters, that it counts.”

“I don’t think your work is unimportant.”

“So you meant ‘morbid’ in a nice way?”

“No, I meant that I think you’re still in love with that freak!”

Silence fell between them. Tom breathed heavily, as if he had just finished a marathon. Molly stood stock still, like a statue. Like one of Degas’ ballerina sculptures, wearing her dancing costume. Her mind, however, was anything but still. A million thoughts and emotions exploded.

She blinked. Told herself to breathe.

“Tom,” she finally said then took another deep breath, stalling. Prevaricating, as usual but when Tom tried to speak, she held up her hand, her left hand. The diamond in her engagement ring still managed to sparkle albeit weakly in the poor lighting. “Sherlock is my friend. He’s not a freak. I do love him, but not like _that_. He can’t give me what I need, I know that now. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about him and I don’t worry about him. This… tonight’s been really hard on him. I don’t know how to explain his relationship with John Watson to you. Mostly because I don’t get it myself to be honest, but watching John get married today was really rough on him and I saw him sneaking out so…”

“Oh,” Relief crossed Tom’s face now. “I understand now.”

“You do?”

“’Course I do,” Tom said triumphantly. “He’s in love with John Watson.”

“What?”

“He’s gay,” Tom pressed a kiss to Molly’s forehead now. “Oh Thank God.”

“ _What_?” Now Molly was the one to back away from Tom. “NO. He’s not. Well… I don’t know which way he swings, honestly,” Molly amended herself with a shake of her head. “Anyway, why does that matter to you or anyone else if he fancies men or not? It’s really none of our business.”

“Yeah, I know, but it makes things so much easier if he is.”

“Are you seriously implying that it’s only OK for me to be friends with Sherlock if he is gay?”

“No, of course not… but it does help if he is a poof. Not that there’s anything wrong with him being a fairy, Molly, wait, come back!” Tom cried out helplessly as Molly stomped away from him. “I don’t have a problem with gay people.”

“Then don’t call them names!” she hollered back over her shoulder.

Tom chased after her. “Hey, now, don’t run,” he reached out with his hand and clasped her shoulder. Molly brushed him off but she stopped her flight. She crossed her arms tightly against her body as Tom pleaded, “Sorry, you’re right. About the name-calling, that’s rude. And of course you can be friends with whoever you please.”

“Oh well thank you for your permission,” Molly made a very sarcastic curtsey. Then, feeling like an arse, she straightened up and softened her voice. “Tom, we can’t keep having this same argument. I honestly wish I knew what to do that proves to you that you’re the one I want, not Sherlock.”

“Who are you trying to convince?” Tom said scornfully, “Me or you?”

“I want to marry you, Tom…”

_Do I?_ Her stomach did a somersault.

“I do,” she said in a firm voice that contradicted her queasy stomach. “I do. I really do. I want to build a life with you and have your children. Not Sherlock’s.” She paused; thinking about what she just said. Then shuddered and added in a mumble, “Definitely not Sherlock’s.”

Her aside didn’t register with Tom. “Hang on,” Tom hesitated then said “Children?”

“Well, yes of course children, I mean, not right away but…” Molly babbled until she finally noticed the look of abject horror on Tom’s face. “You said you liked kids,” she said woodenly.

“Well, yes but you can like kids and still not want to raise them!”

Molly goggled at him, feeling her mouth drop open. “When,” her voice trembled with rage. “Were you planning on informing me of that fact?”

“Well, I assumed you felt the same,” Tom held his hands up helplessly. “You’re on the Pill!”

“Yeah because I don’t want any surprises!” Molly cried out. “Oh my God, you really are an idiot!”

“Hey now,” Tom growled, “Just because I’m not a genius doesn’t mean I’m an idiot!”

“YOU CALLED A FORK A MEAT DAGGER!”

“I GOT FLUSTERED!”

But Molly, laughing bitterly now, pressed on hand to her eyes and the other to her hip. Willing herself not to cry, she said, “Go home, Tom.”

“Wait, what?”

“Go. Home.”

But Tom was frozen, like a stag in a hunter’s sights. “Are we… are we breaking up then?”

Molly pressed her lips tight together as she felt her eyes burning with unshed tears. “I don’t… I don’t know,” she finally choked out. “But I think we should at least… not set a date. Our wedding date, not yet at least.” She lifted her head up now, “Until we get some things sorted out.”

“You’re canceling our engagement?”

“No! Well, yes. I suppose I am. But not permanently, just postponing things for a bit, until we can have a proper discussion about being married, then,” she gave him one of her big, bright smiles. “Then we can go back to planning the wedding.” 

Tom stared at her for what felt like eons. Then his face twisted into something ugly as he spat at her: “You bitch.”

Stung, Molly’s smile crumbled. “Tom, please. Don’t be like that.”

“Don’t be like what?” he took a step towards her. His hand stretched out for her like the talons of a bird of prey reaching for a mouse.

Molly instinctively backpedalled away, her shoulders hunching forward as her hands flew up as if to fend him off. Her throat and chest tightened as she whispered, “Tom…”

He stopped dead in his tracks. Then rolled his eyes as he ran his fingers through his hair, “Oh for Christ’s sake, Molly, if you honestly think I’d hurt you,” he clamped his lips tight together. To Molly’s shock, his eyes suddenly looked watery. “Let’s just call the whole thing off.” He choked out after a painful pause. Then he thrust his hand out. “Give it here.”

Molly stared at him blankly. Then her entire body went limp as a boiled noodle when she realized what he wanted. Wordlessly, she twisted the diamond ring off her finger. But when she held it over his open palm, she bit her lip and clutched the ring in her hand. “Is this what you really want? To, you know, completely break-up? I just want to talk. I mean, I do love you.”

“But you love the idea of a wedding more than actually marrying me.”

“That’s not fair!” Molly’s anger came surging back. She fought the petty urge to throw the ring into the night. “I just don’t think very practical to spend money on a church and a dinner and a dance when we need to sort out very serious things like having children and careers!”

“And friends,” Tom’s voice wobbled. “Because, Molly, I lied. I do have a problem with you being Sherlock Holmes’ friend. Even though you love him as a friend, you still love him. And I still believe he doesn’t give a single shit about you. But mostly,” now, unbelievably, he started weeping. “Mostly, I think he’s going to get you killed and he’ll just regard your death as one more interesting murder while my heart is shattered into a thousand pieces.”

“Tom, Sherlock would never-”

“I read John Watson’s blog!” Tom shouted through his tears. “I’ve read what The Great Detective has done to the doctor, his best friend! What makes you so bloody sure you’d be exempt from that sort of treatment?” When Molly didn’t respond he thrust his hand out again. “He’s your cocaine, Molly. You’ll always go back to him, to get your fix, to get your rush and one day, he will completely turn your life so upside down you won’t ever be able to right it.”  He sniffed and squeezed his eyes tight, trying to compose himself. “And I can’t watch. I can’t. I love you, but I can’t just stand by and let that monster keep tearing you to bits.”

Molly wished she had her handbag. She definitely needed her handkerchief or a tissue now. “I never wanted to hurt you,” her voice quivered as she gently placed the ring in his waiting palm.

He folded his fingers over the broken promise. “Don’t say things that make this worse,” he begged her before turning away from her and disappearing into the night.

Completely alone now, Molly folded into herself, pressing the heels of her hands against her forehead, bending over slightly. A great, shuddery sob slipped out.

“Molly?”

She jumped and whirled around, gasping out a surprised little “Oh!” Then upon seeing Greg Lestrade, she covered her face, knowing she must look like a fright. The tears had melted her most of make-up away, her nose was runny and her cheeks felt hot so she had to be flushed from the crying and humiliation.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Um, look, I have a… ah, yes, here.”

Molly peeked through her fingers like a toddler and saw Greg holding a crisp white cotton handkerchief out to her. Swallowing hard, she took the proffered handkerchief. “Thanks.” As she mopped up her eyes and nose, she asked “So, how much did you overhear?”

Greg winced. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on your private business, Molly. I saw Sherlock slipping out a side door then I saw you follow him. Figured I better go with, make sure everyone was alright,” he said gruffly as he put his hands in his pocket.

“And then you saw the Molly and Tom Show,” she groaned, still sniffling. Her bare ring finger made her feel exposed. Like those horrible dreams when one walked naked into a room full of people. She wanted to go home, crawl into bed and throw the duvet over her head, “Oh God.”

“Well, for the record,” Greg leaned forward. “I never liked the bastard in the first place.”

Molly chuckled then looked at the crumpled handkerchief in her hand, now stained with mascara and lipstick. “I think I ruined this.” She shook her head, “Just like I ruin everything.”

“Hang on now,” Greg closed the gap between them. “I know you feel like crap right now but you really did yourself a favor. You don’t want to get into a marriage without laying all your cards out on the table first. What if you had gone through with it and then found out he didn’t want kids?” As Molly opened her mouth to protest, Greg shook his silvery head. “I heard you very clearly say you didn’t want to break-up, you wanted to have a serious discussion before tying the knot. He’s the idiot who threw the baby out with the bath water.”

Molly nodded, seeing the wisdom in his words.

Then she completely fell to pieces again, pressing her hands to her eyes against while clenching his sodden handkerchief.

“Aw,” she heard Greg say before he folded her into his arms for a cuddle. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“What’s wrong with me?” she snuffled against his good shirt before she could help herself.

“Nothing,” Greg said firmly, “You’re lovely, borderline perfect.” He paused, then added, “Bit annoying, really.”

Against her will, Molly laughed. But she couldn’t help sighing, “Then why can’t I just have an ordinary relationship?”

“Well Molly Hooper,” Greg sighed theatrically, “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you’re not ordinary. You’re something pretty special, actually.”

Molly looked up just in time to see Greg’s heart on his face.

Then suddenly she remembered that horrible Christmas party at Sherlock’s all those years ago, when John told Sherlock to “take a night off” before he cruelly deduced the gift she had purchased and wrapped just for him…

But before the night had gone straight to hell… the _look_ on Greg’s face when she took her coat off and stood there in her little black dress.

_Oh…_

How long had he been… had he always….?

_Oh_.

Now Greg looked embarrassed. Taking a decorous step back, he rubbed his nose with his knuckles and said, “But, you know, I’m biased. In my opinion but then you’ve always been great, a great friend, I mean.” He cleared his throat, obviously nervous that he had crossed some invisible, inappropriate line.

Molly gave him a watery smile and he grinned back, his coffee-brown eyes crinkling up as he did so. _He always had the kindest eyes_.

Inexplicably, she felt something fluttering her stomach. The smallest of butterflies.

Molly knew it was much, _much_ too soon to jump into anything new. Just like it was far too soon for him, having freshly split from his wife… again.

Still, she’d be lying to herself if she claimed she didn’t find him attractive. He was a good-looking bloke, after all. But she never seriously considered it because he was almost old enough to be her father…. _And I’m_ not _seriously considering anything_ , she firmly told herself. _Not at all_.

More attractive than his silvery hair and dark brown eyes was his enormous heart, which meant more to Molly than anything else at the moment. She didn’t want to abuse their friendship by making him an immediate rebound from Tom.

So since his companionship and friendship meant far more to her than anything else right now, she didn’t respond with anything very flirtatious. Flirting would be inappropriate anyway, since her engagement literally just ended minutes ago. So she only said in a friendly voice, “Thank you, you’re…. You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Tell my soon-to-be-ex-wife that,” he quipped.

“Sounds like she and Tom would be perfect together then,” Molly couldn’t help herself. “Seeing how they’re both idiots. Tossing aside completely wonderful people like us.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Greg smiled broadly. “We’re fantastic people. Clearly we’ve been with morons the entire time.”

Molly wiped the remaining tears and the rest of her make-up off her face. “Oh, I’ll try to wash this, but I think I’ll have to owe you a new one,” she grimaced as she held up the blackened, wet handkerchief again.

“Ah, keep it,” Greg closed his fingers over hers. “How about you just give me a dance instead?”

_Oh right. There’s actually a party going on_ , Molly remembered. _A party for two people who love each other, really love each other._

That still gave her hope.

“Deal,” she agreed. “Do I look alright? Doesn’t look like I’ve been crying?”

“You look great,” Greg assured her.

Molly smiled and shook her head. _Right. Biased opinion._

“We better go back then, before Mrs. Hudson or someone starts wondering where we’ve gone off to,” Molly said. Greg agreed, finally letting her hand go. But as they started walking side by side back towards the dance hall, their arms kept brushing against each other. Molly found herself wishing he’d put his arm around her shoulders again. Hold her close.

Just as friends, of course.

So Molly asked her friend, “Do you think Sherlock’s alright though? I mean, he’s probably long gone now, so we wouldn’t be able to track him down. Should we just go to his flat? Or look for him at one of his bolt-holes?”

Greg debated then shook his head, “The crowd probably just overwhelmed him and he had his fill of people. He shrugged then added, “He needs time to himself, Sherlock. Solitude recharges his batteries, so to speak.”

“That’s true,” Molly mused. “Maybe I over-reacted.”

“Maybe, but send him a text anyway, just to be sure,” Greg advised her. “And I’m going to drop in at 221B tomorrow. Pretend I have a cold case that would interest him, but make sure he’s alright. Or, at least, listen to him lie to me and tell me he’s fine,” he shook his head ruefully.

They were at the door to the dance hall again. They could positively feel the ground vibrating from the bass. “Thanks for…well, everything,” Molly suddenly felt fluttery and shy, which was stupid. Nothing was going to happen tonight between her and the detective-inspector anyway. It was far too soon to pursue anything.

But it was nice, feeling wanted again, so soon after being so cruelly tossed away.

“Of course,” he acted shy as well, looking at her bright ochre shoes instead of her face. He cleared his throat again then looked up from the ground and into her eyes. “Oh, forgot to tell you earlier,” his eyes crinkled again as he smiled. “I like this,” he tugged slightly at her gigantic, floppy hair-bow, “Makes me think of a big yellow butterfly.”

“Oh,” she reached up to touch it and her fingertips brushed against his hand. She felt an electric-like jolt throughout her entire body.

_Too soon, too soon… too soon for the both of us…_

She twined her fingers through his anyway. “How about that dance then?”

His face lit up like a schoolboy, but he tried valiantly to maintain his dignity. “Absolutely,” he said as he opened the door.

From his hiding spot in the trees, Sherlock Holmes watched the entire scene with great interest but with his usual detachment.

He had thought he could have fled the loud, obnoxious party unnoticed. After all, none of those simpletons had noticed him once the dance started and people started pairing up… not that he cared, of course. That would be illogical to let his feelings be wounded because he had….

( _… been left out…_ )

… not found a dance partner.

Oh, but Janine had given him that patronizing thumbs-up when she had started dancing with the bloke she had fancied.

How wonderful for _her_.

But just when he thought he had escaped, he had heard Molly coming after him. She had seen him trying to scuttle away.

_You see me…_

Not like she was being very secretive that she was looking for him, calling his name out like that. So, just as he had when he was a boy, he scampered up the first tree he spotted that he knew could hold his weight.

Even though there wasn’t enough foliage to conceal him properly, Sherlock knew Molly would not look _up_ for him. True, she was sharper than most of the meat-sacks stumbling through the world however Molly still was not as observant as he was.

That was alright. She had been absolutely correct. He liked her just as she was. 

But despite his fondness for her, he couldn’t bear her gentle pity or clumsy attempts at comfort. Not tonight. Nor did he want to be the reason for yet another row between the engaged pair. So obvious, the tension between them, not to mention Tom’s tiresome insecurity and stupidity.

Although, Sherlock conceded, the dullard had made a startlingly astute deduction. Molly was indeed more in love with the idea of joining the cult of marriage than actually being a married woman. John’s engagement merely fueled that fire.

Sherlock stretched his long legs out on the tree branch he sat on. He had nearly leapt down from his perch when he heard Tom call Molly a bitch. But he then saw what neither Molly nor Tom could: Lestrade, lingering in the shadows. The D.I. stood much closer to Molly and that pathetic imbecile. He would have reached Molly much faster than Sherlock could.

Between himself and Lestrade, Sherlock doubted Tom would have lived very long had he laid a single finger on the pathologist.

But Molly had stood up for herself with a ferocity Sherlock himself hadn’t realized existed.

_Good girl_.

When Lestrade made his sad attempt at flirting with Molly, tugging at her hair-bow like a schoolboy pulling a little girl’s plaits, Sherlock grunted in contentment. _Finally_.

He found Lestrade’s self-inflicted moral dilemma about being legally married to a positively horrible woman while being attracted to the pathologist utterly boring. What confounded him was how Molly had been completely oblivious to the cow’s eyes he gave her whenever they were in the same room. How it never dawned on her that Lestrade asked for her advice and consultation as an excuse to visit her.

Tenting his fingers as he watched Lestrade open the door and escort Molly inside, Sherlock shook himself out of his reverie. Today had been far more eventful and memorable than he had anticipated. Plus capturing the murderer and convincing John’s good friend Major Sholto not to commit suicide had been the cherry on top of the sundae.

Tapping his fingers together, Sherlock scrolled through his mental list, checking items off, making sure he really hadn’t forgotten anything before actually leaving. Satisfied that there was nothing more required of him, he swung down from the tree branch just as lithely as a jaguar. Landing softly, he straightened and took one last look over his shoulder.

He could hear the dance music and people laughing. He could see the disco lights flashing.

All the merriment gave him a headache.

He flipped up the collar of his Belstaff again and jammed his hands into his coat pockets.

All was as it should be. All were with who they should be. Not only Molly and Lestrade and about bloody time too, but of course, the couple of the hour, John and Mary…

( _… liar, liar, liar…_ )

Sherlock frowned then shook his shaggy curls, trying to shake away that niggling feeling he was missing something about Mary. Something huge, something… obvious.

He puffed out a breath and admitted to himself he felt tired deep down to his damaged bones. 

He planned to sleep a minimum of ten hours tomorrow. He’d lock the door and switch off his mobile. He’d also put a Post-It note on his door, warning Mrs. Hudson he had a massive hangover and didn’t want to have tea with her. He didn’t want to be bothered at all, by anyone. He appreciated Molly and Lestrade’s good intentions to check on him tomorrow, but he sincerely hoped their newly discovered infatuation would distract them.

He started chuckling to himself. If they hadn’t been worried about him, they wouldn’t have finally found each other. 

_Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective and Matchmaker_ , he smirked.

He had felt a bittersweet relief wash over him as he listened to Molly announce to Tom she had finally shed herself of her ridiculous crush on him. When she had rid herself of the irksome fiancé himself… well that had been an unexpected bonus.

 Also, during the wedding dinner, Sherlock had observed Lestrade had a new key on his fob. This meant he had taken a major step forward. He had gotten himself an actual flat instead of camping out in a hotel, waiting to go home to the shrew of a wife.

Clearly Molly and Lestrade would want to be proper about it, not move too quickly. But a smile quirked up on Sherlock’s lips again as he ambled towards the car he had rented for the occasion (no taxis or Tube stops out in this God-forsaken location.)

Observing how relaxed and comfortable Molly had been in Lestrade’s arms, the shy smiles and tentative touches between the two of them, Sherlock calculated it would be at least three hours before they exchanged their first kiss. Two weeks before they snogged like teenagers and two more after that before they started shagging like rabbits.

Sherlock cringed. John taught him that being a good friend meant being a good listener. But it had been mortifying listening to her talk about all the sex she was having with Tom. He really hoped Molly wouldn’t blab to him about her bedroom antics with Lestrade. That would be akin to walking in on his parents having sex.

Or Mycroft.

He cringed again. Nearly vomited at the idea of his brother…no. Just…. No.

_Delete_. _Deletedeletedeletedeletedelete_ …

“Right,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes tight as he paused by his car, trying to erase that horrifying image from his brain. He replaced it with better mental images, happier ones. Things that made sense together. John and Mary. Molly and Lestrade. His parents. Mycroft and cake.

_And I have my work. All is as it should be. All is right in the world._

He felt his chest collapse, as if someone had ripped out his heart and lungs and ribcage. Felt an unfamiliar lump swell up in his throat as well.

He refused to admit that Tom the Twit might have made another startlingly astute deduction.

“Maybe I will get a dog,” he muttered, recalling Mycroft’s jibe about good old Redbeard.

Then he touched his lips, recalling another first kiss. A gentle kiss. Her lips against his while his aching body soaked in her bath tub.

It was a good memory, a happy remembrance that had sustained him through some very dark nights indeed.

But he didn’t smile. He no longer had time to wallow in luxuries like remembering kisses, planning weddings and playing matchmaker.

He fished his mobile out of his coat pocket.

He pressed his thumb on the Google app and typed in a name into the search engine, frowning as a website loaded.

He had been monitoring this situation ever since he had returned to London. This one was a very nasty customer indeed. The very Napoleon of blackmail.

An emotion just as foreign as love kindled within Sherlock.

Hatred. Hot and scorching.

He hadn’t even hated Moriarty. He had been angered by him, had even feared him at times. But he hadn’t hated Moriarty. Moriarty had been a worthy opponent, a noble adversary in a twisted sort of way. But this man… this man was just… low life scum. An utter bastard who had made his fortune preying on people who were _different_ , uncovering their secrets, exposing them if they didn’t bend to his will.

He smiled bitterly. Even The Great Consulting Detective had his secrets to protect.

Among his many secrets was the identity of the one person who mattered, who _counted_.

The idea of this piece of filth exploiting Molly’s role in The Fall sickened him.

He actually snarled when the villain’s photograph popped up on his screen.

A very nasty customer indeed, with his deadened shark-like gaze and three-piece suit.

It was only a matter of time before this bastard crossed the line. Soon, he would receive a call from someone desperate for justice.

“Hello Charles Augustus Magnussen,” Sherlock purred before swiping the picture away. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

Yes, it was good Molly was with Lestrade now.

He’d keep her safe. Plus she couldn’t follow Sherlock where he was going.

_And neither can John._ He realized as he unlocked the car door and got in. _Fortunately he now has Mary to distract him from me._

_And I have my work to distract me from John’s absence from my life. Yes. All is well._

But that wasn’t the only thing Sherlock had been wrong about that night.

It only took two hours instead of three before Greg and Molly shared their first kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting and kudo'ing everyone. :^)


	4. Epilogue: Post His Last Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Her thoughts flew and spiraled but not like pretty, multicolored butterflies. Rather more like bats, the scary ones from the movies. Squeaks and screams, leathery wings flapping. Creating a mocking cacophony where the only clear sound was the chorus.
> 
> Stupid, stupid, stupid…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of this might sound familiar to those of you who may be reading "The Solitary Hunter" series.  
> If you're not reading that series, no worries! I wrote this as a stand-alone. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_Epilogue: Post His Last Vow_

26 February 2015  
Molly Hooper’s residence  
Early Thursday morning  
5:59 AM

After seeing the little pink plus sign materialize in the tiny window of the plastic stick, she threw up again. This time, nerves and shock had made her sick, not hormones. Not morning sickness, although she had been having plenty of that.

She leaned against the side of the tub and with shaking hands, retrieved that white plastic stick that had heralded the announcement that her life had been irrevocably changed.

Her thoughts flew and spiraled but not like pretty, multicolored butterflies. Rather more like bats, the scary ones from the movies. Squeaks and screams, leathery wings flapping.  Creating a mocking cacophony where the only clear sound was the chorus.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid…_

With the back of her hand, she wiped a smear of sick off her lips, more bile than anything else. She hadn’t been able to keep anything down in longer than a fortnight. That coupled with aching breasts, an unusual lethargy and a skipped period had been her signs that maybe she should stop at the chemist after her shift.

Despite the glaringly obvious symptoms(the biggest red flag being the absent period), Molly had wallowed in denial. From the moment she woke up, all during work, while taking the Tube ride to the nearest chemist and until she had actually gone through the highly undignified process of peeing on a stick, she had desperately tried to rationalize to herself. It was the flu. It was food-poisoning. It was salmonella.

It was anything but… but… just, please God, no. Not today, not right now. _Not with him_.

 All during her shift as she made Y-incisions and completed autopsy reports, she had quietly chanted to herself _No no no no no no..._

But the hateful pink plus sign was a loud and resounding _Yes_.

She frowned as she mindlessly twirled the pregnancy test in her hands, attempting to marshal her thoughts. If her mind must be filled with bats, at the very least, she could try to control them instead of letting them fly free.

She took a deep breath. Then another.

_Focus_.

Granted, she hadn’t been very religious about taking her birth control pills ever since she and Greg had split up. She hadn’t stopped taking them altogether… just not at the same time every day like she was supposed to take them. The day Jim had made his big screen re-appearance, she had clean forgotten to take her pill at all.

_Jim…_

Molly felt her flesh prickle with goose-bumps. The hair on her neck stood up. Her stomach started roiling again. She pressed the back of her knuckles against her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. She made herself get off the floor, close the toilet seat and sit down properly.

_Focus._

Would he come back for her? Was she still so insignificant, would he overlook her in his new pursuit of Sherlock? Or was she a pressure point for the Great Consulting Detective?

Even if she wasn’t, would they assume she still was? Would they assume he would care that she was… that she carried…

Her brain stuttered. Part of her still longed to sink back down into that warm pool of denial.

_Say it_ , she ordered herself as she pulled her cardigan tightly around herself. _Out loud._

She screwed her eyes tightly shut, just like she had when she was a little girl before getting her vaccination jabs or before a scary part in a film. _Say it. Say it so it becomes real._

“It’s his,” she whispered.

She opened her eyes. Well, the world hadn’t exploded… yet.

But still… of all the men in the world… seriously… why did it have to be _him_?

“Could be worse,” she tried to joke as old Toby, curious as to why his mistress was sitting on the toilet instead of feeding him, rubbed up against her ankles. “I mean, it could have been Jim Moriarty instead of Sherlock, right?”

As soon as those words left her mouth, Molly was on her knees in front of the toilet, sick again.

When she had nothing left to bring up, she flushed and closed the lid of the toilet. Then, not caring how unsanitary it was, she rested her forehead on the toilet lid. “Shit,” she snuffled. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit_!” 

The Great Consulting Detective… the deductive mastermind, the asexual genius, the bitterly cold and callously logical man, had showed up uninvited at her flat last January, uncharacteristically emotional… and higher than a bloody kite.

She had wanted to slap him again. She should have slapped him again and called for a taxi to send him packing. But she had been piss-drunk. She had been feeling desperately sorry for herself , alone at a wedding reception she had planned on attending along with Greg. 

When she had asked Greg to come as her date to that wedding in January, there had been no indication, no clue of the hell about to be unleashed. There had been no clouds in the horizon. John and Mary had been happily married, with a baby on the way. Sherlock, safely back in London where he belonged, had buried himself into his precious work. He seemed happier than an obese child in an unsupervised bakery.

 And Greg had been the best, the very best, boyfriend she had ever been with, not that she could compare him to very many boyfriends. She never had a boyfriend in secondary school and she had a grand total of two boyfriends at uni. The first had been as twitchy and nervous and virginal as she had been. Irritated, she had ended it. The second had lost interest in her after he had relieved her of her virginity. But even after that, they had maintained enough of a relationship to engage in occasional sex when neither one of them could find a willing partner.

She had gone on dates here and there during her medical training, but those dates were far and few in-between. She had been too busy studying for exams, too tired from internships and of course, more often than not, too tongue-tied to say more than a few words over cocktails.

Once she started her employment at Bart’s, there had been two relationships, but nothing worth writing home to mother, literally. Then she had laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes, beating a corpse black and blue with a riding crop and for the longest time, no other man could measure up to the tall, brilliant detective with the rich, honeyed voice  and cold, piercing eyes.

Then there had been Jim, with his doe eyes and lilting Irish voice. Even before he surged back to life (digitally at least), that insignificant three-lettered name still completely filled her with terror. Enough to nearly cause a panic attack if she allowed herself to dwell on him. 

Then there had been Tom, who, in the end, she had to admit, was not only a complete moron, but utterly lackluster and dull. But he had been easy on the eyes, he had assuaged her loneliness and to be completely honest (as well as a little crude) wasn’t completely terrible in the bedroom. But he couldn’t kiss for toffee. Tom’s kisses sometimes would get a bit slobbery when he was eager for sex. 

When she had kissed Sherlock in her bath, he had been as responsive as a piece of paper.

Greg’s kisses however were lovely, perfect. He had ended up kissing her at John and Mary’s reception then apologized profusely. Molly accepted the apology but heartily wished he hadn’t stopped kissing her.

But because Greg and Molly were responsible, mature adults, they agreed they had too much to drink and both liked each other too much to use the other as a rebound from their failed relationships. Then Molly immediately asked him if he wanted to have lunch the next day  just as Greg asked her if she’d like to meet him for breakfast.

They compromised and met for brunch the next morning.

Two weeks after John and Mary’s wedding, they were snogging like teenagers after Greg had taken her out on a proper date. Two weeks after that, they started shagging like rabbits. After that, Molly spent most of her nights at Greg’s cramped bachelor pad. He had cleared out a drawer for her so she could keep spare knickers and socks there. He didn’t whinge when she nicked one of his t-shirts to use for her pyjamas. He always made sure there was Weetabix for her breakfast, a tin of Earl Grey for her tea and he had bought her a spare toothbrush. He also admitted to loving _Glee_ then made her swear to holy God not to tell a soul.

He even grudgingly tolerated Toby for her sake, even though he was more of a dog person.

It was nice, _so nice_ , dating someone who remembered everyday kindnesses and courtesies, a proper gentleman. Not a psychopath or a self-absorbed numpty or a high-functioning sociopath.

Life suddenly became lovely, blissful. Summer sunshine and butterflies. Late night talks and early morning sex. Fancy dresses and sharply pressed suits. Comfy old t-shirts and track suits. Texts and sexts. Long walks at Regent’s Park whenever they could get away from their jobs. Holding hands and stealing kisses when no one was looking. 

He had even taken her to Sunday lunch to meet his mother. She took him on a mini-break to introduce him to the entire Hooper clan. But while they had liked him, genuinely liked him, her brothers of course had to take the mickey out of her, calling her boyfriend, “Gramps.”

But oh God, there was something about being with an older, experienced man in bed. He had done things to her that positively made her toes curl.

Without any warning, everything came crashing down

Sherlock got shot, nearly died, twice. John and Mary abruptly split shortly after that. In a blink of an eye, John was back in 221B while the pregnant Mary evaporated.. No one would answer Molly’s texts. Sherlock had been too frail to answer any of Greg’s questions and John uncharacteristically bit Greg’s head off when he had tried to talk to him.

Bad became worse when the tabloids caught wind of John abandoning his pregnant wife. After eviscerating Sherlock for his sexual predilections, thanks to the lies that whore Janine sold them, they pounced on John. Hat-Man and Robin became even more reclusive than ever.

But by then, Molly had her own problems. The honeymoon period had ended by November when she had broached the idea of moving in properly with Greg. Yes, that would be a huge step, might even be rushing things. But in all practicality, she was almost always at his place anyway. It was stupid of them to both be paying a king’s ransom in rent when they could live together and share the cost. Greg had been keen on the idea, but evasive on setting a move-in date. At the end of November, the penny dropped.

He finally admitted that his divorce wasn’t finalized. He was still legally married. 

Molly felt that same rush of betrayal she had when Tom had admitted he didn’t want kids. _When were you planning on informing me of that fact?_

They had gotten into a blazing row that ended with Molly storming out, feeling used and dirty. Granted, he hadn’t lived with his wife in well over a year, had actually gotten his own place right before John and Mary’s wedding. Technically and legally he was still married so he was still committing adultery, which wasn’t right and she was not OK with that…

Or so she thought, until she had left his flat and realized the magnitude of her mistake. Still she had made herself continue walking, made herself wait until she was safely in her wee flat, the rabbit hutch she moved into after ending things with Tom.

Once in her unflattering, fuzzy pyjamas, she had bawled her eyes out while good old Toby curled up in her arms, occasionally rubbing his head against her wet face.

_I’m going to die alone and my cat is going to eat my corpse_ , Molly had sobbed to herself.   

She spent another Christmas at her mum’s with all her relatives giving her pitying looks because she was alone. Again.

Her well-meaning Aunt Tildy had even gone so far as to ask her if she even liked boys, which it was perfectly alright if she didn’t. Some of the nicest people she knew were lesbians.

Molly hadproduced on of her nervous, too-big grins and said, “OK!” . before feigning a headache. She went to bed, completely unaware of the drama unfolding in London.

Curled up in the tiny twin bed in her mother’s guest room, she heartily wished she hadn’t rushed into things with Greg. Simultaneously she had wished he would come back or at least ring her.

She got her wish. A few days later, after the horrifying appearance of Jim Moriarty on every television screen in England, she had gotten a tense call from Greg. First he had asked her if she was OK, if she was safe. When she had assured him she was alright, then he dropped bombshell after bombshell.

Sherlock had gotten himself in deep shit with MI-6. Greg had no details, just that the government basically owned Sherlock now. It was either that or life incarceration, or worse, according to John, who hadn’t elaborated on what Sherlock had done. Or what “worse” meant.

As for John, he had reconciled with Mary when she had unexpectedly returned on Christmas Day. She had gone into premature labor on New Year’s Day. She had nearly died while giving birth to her daughter. Mary was still in a coma. As for the baby…

“Mrs. Hudson just called me,” Greg’s voice had cracked. “She didn’t make it.”

“Oh no,” Molly had closed her eyes and had fought to keep her voice steady. “What can I do?”

“Maybe stay with Mary? John’s an utter wreck, he’s… not himself.”

“Of course, of course… how… how are you?”

“Me? Oh, I’m aces.”

“Is there anything you need from me?” she had blurted out without thinking.

The extended silence had been excruciatingly painful. “No, I’m… I’m good. Just sit with Mary, so she’s not alone, even though, you know… right. I have to go. Just thought you should know.”

“Thanks for calling,” she had started to say before he had hung up on her.

She and Greg had taken turns sitting with the comatose Mrs. Watson. Molly never saw Greg, John or Sherlock once.

Then as she trudged home from her vigil over Mary one night, she realized it was  Sherlock’s birthday. She sent him a text. A text he ignored.

Mary had woken up the next day in absolute hysterics when she realized her baby had died.

It just kept getting worse.

Culminating with a frenzied and upset Sherlock barging into her flat three days later, higher than he had been last September when an enraged John dragged him into her lab for a drug test. 

Molly’s booze-soaked brain had made her feel foggy and sluggish.  Alone and miserable, she had caved to self-pity earlier as she struggled to get the zip up on her pretty hunter-green dress.

A dress she bought with Greg specially on her mind. Had fantasized about him pulling the zip down at the end of the night, when they were home alone.

She then decided to get good and properly smashed at her friend’s wedding. 

Mission accomplished. She barely made it into her flat without falling on her face.

Sober Molly would have scolded Strung-Out Sherlock soundly and sent him back to Baker Street. Drunk Molly had been at a complete loss, ill-equipped to handle this surreal situation. She had only been able to watch in dismay as he prowled through her flat, examining her knickknacks, paging through her books and magazines, going through her DVD collection leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.

She had put her foot down when he produced a pack of cigarettes and lighter, had finally lost her patience. After telling to him to go home if he wanted to smoke, something dark and sinister had crossed his long, pale face.

“Home,” he had huffed as he took the cig out of his mouth. Then, glaring at her as if it had been her fault, he informed her that earlier that day he had gotten into bitter row with John… only he called it a “minor disagreement.” During this “minor disagreement”, John had finally snapped. “He said it would have been better if I had Never. Come. Back. At all.”

 “Oh,” Molly had breathed while thinking _John how could you?_ “He didn’t mean it, Sherlock, he’s going to call you tomorrow and say-“

“That he’s an idiot and he is _soooo_ sorry, he lost his head because he was angry and was not thinking straight because he and the little missus are trying to work out some issues plus he’s still sad about losing the baby and he took it out on me so on and so forth. Dull,” he had then stomped up onto her coffee table and then onto her sofa like a child. “And do pour yourself a proper drink instead of continuing this farce of _tea_ , Molly. You’ve looked at the wine glasses on your shelf no fewer than five times since I’ve been here.”

 “Could you not stand on my sofa then?” she had squeaked, switching the kettle off.

“As you wish,” he had snarled with a roll of his eyes.

“I wish,” she had hated how her voice sounded high and breathless when she had pleaded with him. “I wish you’d just tell me what happened.”

She had meant what happened that caused tonight’s row with John.

But that was not how Sherlock had interpreted it. “Do you really?”

“Well, yes. Of course. We’re friends. You can tell me things. I did keep one of your biggest secrets for two years. I think you can trust me. I won’t tell John.”

His face had looked like a death’s mark, pale and thin, eyes strange, bluish-gold. “Do I have your absolute word you will not tell John any of this?”

“Yes, of course, Sherlock. I promise.”  

“Then turn off those blinding lights and let me tell you a story, my dear Miss Hooper.”

Sherlock had then flopped down in her armchair like an exhausted king. When he started talking, the dam had been broken. For nearly two and a half hours, Molly had listened to story after story about what he had endured during the Great Hiatus. The more and more he had talked, the more and more Molly wished he’d stop. The stories he told her about what he had done and what he had witnessed while he had been away were actually worse than she had ever imagined.

Then there had been that unnerving bit where he confessed he had been the one who murdered Charles Augustus Magnussen.  Her throat had gone very dry by then. She had reached for her wine glass, but it had been emptied ages ago.

Finally, after talking nonstop for so long, his voice had started to crack, started to give out. He had rested his curly black head against the wall as he croaked, “I thought John understood. He said he did, he said he forgave me. I let him hit me in the face, let him be upset and angry and I thought we were past all of this, that it would be as it was. The two of us against the world... and it turns out,” his voice wavered, sounding almost childlike now. “We’re not. Past this, past the Fall. Turns out, I actually made a mistake, that I didn’t deduce John correctly, that he actually didn’t want me…” he trailed off as he lowered his head. “Oh Molly… these things… all these things I did to come home. And in the end… it didn’t count for anything.”

Molly had always believed the phrase “One thing led to another” was a load of codswallop, an excuse for bad behavior. But that was exactly what had happened. One thing had simply led to another. As he had drawn his knees up, resting his forehead on them as he wrapped his long arms around his legs, Molly had stood up from her sofa. She went to him, wanting to simply comfort him, to be a good friend to this strange, infuriating man, this walking and talking contradiction of darkness and light.

She had smoothed his black curls back, cupped his face, making him look up at her. “You _are_ home. You _are_ wanted.” She had hoped her words would find their way through the druggy haze that enveloped him. Then a bolt of inspiration hit her. “You _count_ , Sherlock.” She had run her thumb across his cheekbone.

He had pulled away from her hand, lowering his head again. But then surprisingly he had reached out and clutched the folds of her skirt, pulling her to him. Had wrapped his long arms around her narrow waist, pulling her closer.

Then one thing led to another to another to another in rapid succession. Before her alcohol-muddled mind could process what was happening, it was Sherlock, not Greg working the zip of her dress down. She had a brief argument with herself about what a terrible idea it would be to let this go any further… an argument she had lost with herself. _The hell with it._

He hadn’t been the only one hurting and lonely here.

Her dress and his shirt had been abandoned in the lounge. In the bedroom, she had divested him of his trousers and boxers with indecent haste. Meanwhile, he had struggled with her bra.

“ _Fucking clasp_.”

Molly had giggled. “The great genius can’t figure out how to undo a bra.”

“Oh shut up,” he had growled then gave up on the clasp and started kissing her again, roughly, frantically as he guided her towards the bed. They had tumbled down together, Sherlock pulling her on top of him. Later Molly would blush about her forwardness, but at the time, she gladly had straddled him, letting him watch as she unhooked her bra herself.

He had been absolutely transfixed. But his eyes had been on her face, not her breasts.

Molly had smiled as she stretched out over him, kissing him. Had relished in the feel of his skin against hers, rolling her hips against his like a tease, until she felt him arching against her. Only when he had actually groaned out the words, “God, please…” had she granted him mercy, sitting up and sinking down on him. Her own arousal intensified as she watched  his normally composed face contort with abandon and pleasure as they started moving together.

But, even when high, even when debauched, he was still Sherlock Holmes. Control was still everything to this man. He had run his hands up her belly to her breasts then back down again. Then he had flipped her onto her back but tilted her hips at a slight angle before entering her again, making her gasp and cry out as he thrust into her deeper, faster, harder. Molly had nearly wept from the force of her orgasm as she wrapped trembling legs around him. She felt him comeas well as the inevitable sense of loss when he slipped out of her as his release oozed down the inside of her thighs…

_(Stupid, stupid, stupid… why didn’t I make him wear a condom?)_

… and they had dozed off side-by-side, her auburn head nestled on his broad shoulder.

But during the night, they had changed positions. In dawn’s first light, Molly had found herself on her side, with Sherlock spooned around her, holding her close against him.

_He’s a cuddler, who would have thought?_ she had dreamily thought, only half-awake. 

_And hard as a rock_ , she had realized, feeling his morning erection against her backside.

Not fully conscious of what she was doing, she had suggestively moved her bottom against his front. Eventually, she felt his long fingers push her tangled hair off her neck and shoulders then felt his lips working their way up from her shoulder to her throat to her ear. He had delicately licked the outer shell of her ear then had gently maneuvered her to lie on her belly. He had moved her hair again then slowly, lazily started leaving butterfly kisses over every inch of her back. Molly let herself drift off, luxuriating in the unexpected erotic sensation of his mouth ghosting over her bare back. She had shivered when he dragged the tip of his tongue up and down her backbone.

His hands on her hips, he had rolled her to her back again. She had tilted her head back and parted her lips, expecting him to kiss her so it was an unexpected but not unwelcomed sensation when he had buried his head between her legs, his tongue caressing a very different set of lips.

Molly had fisted the bed sheets as he started flicking his tongue languorously in and out of her. His hands slid up her sweaty belly. He cupped her breasts as he continued to torment her, payback for her teasing him last night. Soon, she had been the one begging, whimpering. Not soon enough, he had slid back inside her. His arms had trembled with the effort of staying on top without crushing her. He had studied her face intensely as Molly wrapped her arms around his neck and shoulders, meeting him thrust for thrust. She had made him break that gaze by kissing him roughly, one hand grasping his coal black curls, the other sliding down his horribly scarred back so she could grasp his backside, pushing him more deeply into her.

Doing that had pushed them both over the edge. This time Molly did actually cry from the intensity of her climax. Sherlock had been shaking head to toe. “Is this normal?” he had finally asked in a shuddery voice as he swiped the tears off her face with his long fingers.

“Sometimes,” she had said breathlessly, reveling in the pleasant afterglow.

And he had held her tightly, kissing her cheek while whispering “My Molly…” before drifting off.

Molly had fallen back asleep. Around noon, she had woken up.

Really woken up.

The tiny room reeked of sex. Her entire body had still been sticky from sweat and semen. Her head had throbbed with too much alcohol and not enough sleep. Her mouth had felt like she had eaten cotton wool. A glass of water would solve most of those problems so she grudgingly  had sat up. She had pushed her sex-tousled hair out of her face and had smiled down at the still-sleeping, still naked Sherlock in her bed, snoring just slightly.

She had thought how he had looked at her, his eyes locked on her face, enrapt as she sat astride him. The memory made her feel enormously sexy and a tiny _tiny_ bit smug. _I made the Great Detective come undone. How many people can truly say that?_

But before she could have entertained any sort of future or at the very least, fulfilling another fantasy, she had looked at his outstretched arm, the luminous pale skin, the faint blue veins.

And had seen the track marks in the crook of his elbow. Tiny pockmarks marring the beautiful marble skin.

She had no longer felt sexy. She had no longer felt smug. She had felt desperately afraid. 

_Did he shoot up with a dirty needle?_

Her throat had tightened as she reached for her rumpled duvet to cover herself.

She had clasped her hands over her mouth as she swallowed down a scream. Tom’s bitter words had chosen that precise moment to haunt her:

_I think he’s going to get you killed and he’ll just regard your death as one more interesting murder…_

The need to _run_ had never felt so strong as it had right then and there. She hadn’t even bothered to shower; she had only splashed cold water on her face, cleaned her teeth and swallowed her birth control pill…made bloody damn sure she took her birth control pill. Hastily she put on a sports bra, knickers and a track suit. She had snatched up her neglected gym bag, planning on showering properly at the gym.

She had quickly fed a very confused Toby, wrote a coward’s note to the man sleeping her bed about being called to work and bolted. All the while she had worried about what diseases could be making their way through her bloodstream right that very second.

_Did he kill me? Or at the very least, make my life unbearable?_

She had run on the treadmill for about an hour, trying to run from her very real fears. Then she showered and dressed properly, but had nowhere to go. So she had gone to a cinema and sat through _Into The Woods_ twice. Then she had visited a Starbucks, ordered a decadent chocolate frappuchino and then found a booth far in the back. Then she had made a humiliating telephone call to her doctor’s surgery, setting an appointment for a blood screen, specifically for sexually transmitted diseases.

She had ended up throwing most of the frappuchino away and finally had gone home.

“Sherlock?” she had called out tentatively as she let herself back into her home. Afraid he was still there, angry and insulting while coming down from his high. Afraid he was gone, that she had been nothing more than a distraction for him while he sorted things out with John.

Her flat had been immaculate. He had put away all the things he had carelessly thrown about last night. He had washed her wine glass and the tea things. He had even given Toby fresh food and water. Petting her fat old tabby, she had tremulously made the short trip from the front door to her small bedroom.

The bed had been made with fresh linens. Her hunter-green dress had been neatly hung up in her wardrobe. He had even put her high-heeled pumps in its proper place.

But no sign of Sherlock.

She went back into her kitchen to make a cup of tea. She had then finally noticed Sherlock had written on the other side of her  note to him. She flipped it over and read:

All I do is hurt you.   
Forgive me – SH

She had balled up the note and binned it. She didn’t know if she could forgive him right away, but she had felt a little better that the emotionally crippled man had tried to make amends.

She had felt a little better when she got the results from her STD tests. Negative.

She had felt a tiny bit better when two weeks after that around the end of January, another note appeared, folded and taped to her work computer screen. It had been unsigned but the elegant handwriting was unmistakable.

Took a test because of my carelessness.   
Came back clean. Thought you’d like to know.

Molly had felt a giant weight lift from her shoulders. Had thought she could write off their strange night together as a one-night stand fueled by a series of bad decisions they had both made. Turn the page, close the chapter on Sherlock Bloody Holmes and move on with life.

Yes. Good. Excellent.

Then she had bolted for the loo and vomited.

Off and on she continued to feel queasy and achy. She dismissed the most obvious possibility because _that wasn’t a possibility_. She had been on The Pill.

Then, completely out of the blue, Greg had stopped at St. Bart’s just two weeks ago. He used a case as a pretense to talk to her, of course. But eventually and stumbling over his words, he apologized for not being fully honest about his marital status. Told her he was an idiot for stalling his divorce, but it had been painful admitting that he had failed at something as important as marriage. Told her he understood completely why she walked out on him and he still thought she was borderline perfect, which was still annoying, by the way. He had given her the tiniest grin when he said that.

“Anyway,” he had nervously drummed his fingers on the metal examining table. “No one is talking to anyone right now. Sherlock’s off chasing Moriarty. I haven’t talked to him since the beginning of January, hadn’t seen hide or hair of him.”

Molly had guiltily looked at the floor while chewing on a hangnail.

“John’s back with Mary and they’re trying to patch things up but I don’t really know how that’s going. And besides,” Greg had scrunched his silvery brow. “I’m still not sure why they split in the first place. But that’s not here or there, it’s just that… well, I thought we could set, you know, a good example for everyone else. Start talking again. Because…errr…”

Molly had finally smiled, feeling that fiery ache in her chest as she looked into his kind, coffee-brown eyes. “I miss you too. I miss everyone, actually, but I really miss you.”

“Really?”

Molly had nodded, the hurt in her chest spreading throughout her entire body. She had wanted to bury her face in his chest, now regretting every single minute she had spent with Sherlock. _How could I have been so stupid, to have thrown everything away with Greg for a one-time fling with His Majesty? Because they’re both right, Sherlock and Tom._

_Even when he doesn’t mean to, all he does is hurt me. He’s my cocaine, Sherlock._

_Time to break the habit._

“Yes, truly, but this time, can we go slower this time? We rushed things last time, so maybe start again as friends first then see what happens?”

The way his face had lit up, one would have thought he had won the lottery, “Of course, absolutely. You set the pace.”

She had suggested lunch tomorrow and he had readily agreed, “Unless a murderer goes and kills someone in my jurisdiction.”

“Well, then ride along with the body to Bart’s and bring sandwiches.”

“Deal,” he had chuckled then told her he had to go. But he had paused by the door and added, “Oh, I also wanted to let you know I finally swallowed my pride. I signed the ruddy divorce papers and had mailed them in. Shouldn’t take long now, my ex and I don’t own any real estate together or have much money to split, so… yeah, anyway, just wanted you to know.”

Molly had to restrain herself from hugging him. But she did give him an enormous smile.

They had lunch the next day, then a late night coffee later that night while waiting for Sherlock to show up to deduce why three different men from three different races, social classes and income brackets had been murdered in the exact, same odd way (sewing scissors jammed in the ear canals. Gruesome and weird, right up the Consulting Detective’s alley.)

Sherlock never came; he  had sent his findings to Greg via text. Molly had been relieved.

The very next morning, Greg had brought her coffee and Nutella sandwiches when a double-homicide he was investigating caused her to work overtime. In return, Molly had brought Chinese to New Scotland Yard and they shared dinner in his office.

By Valentine’s Day, she knew his true feelings, had always known his feelings really. Even though he insisted it was just two people going out to dinner as friends, he had taken her to one of those posh restaurants she had always wanted to go to on a date. She knew it wasn’t enough for him to be “just friends.”

It wasn’t enough for her either, to be perfectly honest.

There was just one small problem.

Eyes blurring, Molly sat up and tried to grab the pregnancy test again.

_Focus…_

But her hands shook so badly, the plastic stick slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid…_

Molly ran her hands up over her sweaty face and clutched her hair, actually pulled on it hard. Physical pain would be preferable to the emotional turmoil whirling around within her.

_I wish I knew what to do_ , the old fluttery insecurities rushed back. _I wish this wasn’t happening, I wish_ he _wasn’t the father, I wish I could blame him completely for this, but I can’t, I was more than willing, but I wish I hadn’t been… I wish, I wish, I wish…_

But amidst the noise within her head, she managed to hear the tiniest voice whispering. The voice had sounded suspiciously like her own, before her father’s death had sucked the strength from her. Her voice, back then, back when she was a brave girl who would climb up a tree to rescue a mean old cat, had been bold and fearless, even when she had stuttered.

_What do you want, Molly?_

She let go of her hair. Well, that was a very logical question indeed.

She stood up and ran her hand over her still-flat belly. She reached for a tissue and blew her nose. Then she went to her sink and washed her face and hands. Once that was done, she knew what she wanted.

What she had declared to Tom last summer was still true. She wanted children, a family of her own. She wanted to work, to be productive and helpful. She wanted to be there for her friends, but not have them take advantage of her kindness.

_Well_ , her ten-year-old voice sounded in her head again. _That wasn’t so hard was it?_

Molly chuckled wryly and picked up a hairbrush to put her hair back to rights. _It’d be nice to be married first_ but immediately thought _although that’s not quite necessary, is it?_

This was, after all 2015, not 1915.

She knew she didn’t have to have this baby if she didn’t want it. To her slightly old fashioned family’s dismay, she believed life began at birth. Gestation was the prequel, not the first chapter of a life story, in her opinion anyway.

She also knew she could have this baby if she wanted it. She studied her reflection in the mirror and admitted she wanted this child very, very badly. Not for any romanticized feelings for its biological father either, but because she wanted to be a mother. Period.  

Besides, facts were facts. She was turning 36 this year. Not a lot of time left on the old biological clock, was there? She made decent money as a pathologist. They wouldn’t live in the lap of luxury, might even have to leave London. Maybe move to Cheltenham to be closer to her mother. But she’d manage, _they’d_ manage, the two of them. After all, her parents hadn’t been wealthy either and they had raised _five_ children. She would only have the one.

_So, I guess I’m doing things out of order then_ , she decided as she finally left her tiny bathroom. _Baby first, then marriage, assuming I’ll ever get married, that is. Of course, it_ is _alright if I don’t ever marry. But, if I am being truthful with myself, I would be lying if I said I never wanted to get married. But, I’ll deal with that particular hurdle when it shows up. I have enough to contend with right now, thank you very much._  

She made her way to her kitchen to make chamomile tea in order to settle her jumpy stomach. The act of preparing tea calmed her mind as well. She needed a calm mind, needed to _think_ , because the specter of Jim Moriarty still hovered over her.   Her heart ached as she slowly realized the only way to protect herself and the baby might be to deny the child’s paternity. Jim thought she had been insignificant to Sherlock. Only a very few people knew about her role in the Fall. No one would be interested in a kid produced from a one-night-stand with some random chap she had met while she had been blitzed out of her mind.

The progeny of Sherlock Holmes however could draw some very unwanted attention. Moriarty, for example. Or worse, Mycroft Holmes.

Molly shivered then poured boiling water over the tea bag.

As far as telling Sherlock… Molly shuddered again. That was going to be dreadful, no doubt about it. No way she would be able to keep it a secret from him. He had deduced Mary’s pregnancy at her wedding and she had been barely a month along. He would take one look at Molly and know right away she was up the duff. Even if she didn’t tell him he was the father, his sharp eyes would see some miniscule characteristic that would link the child to him.

So a confrontation would be inevitable and probably horrible at that. He could be so cold, so cruel sometimes. She knew she had to prepare herself for hurtful comments like _Just when I thought your intelligence couldn’t possibly be more lacking_ or worse, _Oh just get rid of the thing, it’s the logical thing to do_.

_The hell with you_ , she thought, surprised by the vehemence of her anger. _Well, why shouldn’t I be angry? Why not indeed? He risked my life. He shot up before sleeping with me. Probably with a dirty needle, had to be dirty, or else why would he have gotten tested? I have every right to be angry. I’ve been so busy being scared I never had time to be mad, good and properly mad. The worst bit is my life is still in danger. I could be exposed again, because of him, only this time, exposed to Moriarty and his gang._

Her tea spoon rattled against her cup as she stirred the sugar in.

_Logical or not, I’m keeping this baby. I’m not going to sit on my backside anymore and wish for things to happen. I’m going to make things happen. This baby is happening. If Sherlock Bloody Holmes doesn’t like it, too damn bad. It’s not like he’s going to have anything to do with this child anyway. It’s too dangerous plus I don’t want him near me or the baby if he’s using again._

Molly swallowed hard. The unfairness of making decisions like this without him weighed heavily on her conscience.

Then her mouth set in a hard line. Life was unfair.

Besides, he probably wouldn’t care, probably didn’t care…

_You count…_

…about her…

_You made this all possible…_

….or her baby…right? _My baby, not yours, do you hear me, Sherlock? Mine…_

_My Molly…_

_You’re not being John, you’re being you…_

Her heart twisted, but she forced herself to be honest. She really didn’t want the baby’s father to be out of the picture but it wasn’t safe for anyone if he wasn’t. Sherlock’s enemies would target her and the child immediately. As for Sherlock himself, even if he surprised everyone and wanted to actively participate, to actually be a dad and not just a sperm donor, Molly didn’t fully trust him. His lifestyle was too unpredictable and his erratic personality was too harsh to inflict upon a small child. He just couldn’t be trusted with a little one, especially if he had embraced his old drug habits again.

She needed Sherlock to be the Great Consulting Detective, someone she had once been very fond of, but who was now just a really good friend…

_“Sweetheart this is Mummy’s good friend Sherlock…”_

Besides, it wasn’t Sherlock she wanted anyway, not really. Not anymore.

Now her eyes brimmed with tears, trying to imagine telling Greg. She couldn’t find it within her to deceive him, make him think the baby as his, couldn’t even contemplate tricking him like that.

 Besides, they still hadn’t made love since reconnecting because they were still “just friends”, so even if she was a conniving sort of person, he’d probably figure it out anyway.

She started sniffling into her tea. Carrying the steaming mug, she made her way to her sofa. Sitting cross-legged, she gave her cat a watery smile as she scratched his ears. If keeping the baby meant losing Greg… so be it. She would hope for the best… but if he couldn’t handle the fact she was part of a package deal now, there was no hope for a happy ending for them.

But she was making decisions for herself, no longer allowing anyone manipulate her. Not like how Jim Moriarty had used her loneliness to befriend her in order to get closer to Sherlock. Not like how Mycroft Holmes had used her infatuation for the Great Detective to care for him in secret after the Fall. Not like how Tom tried to make her feel guilty for being friends with Sherlock because Tom in the end was extraordinarily insecure, never really trusted her to stay.

And she wouldn’t allow Greg to make her feel guilty for having a baby that wasn’t his. Even if that meant losing him again, only permanently this time.

The worst part about betrayal and manipulation, Molly realized as she stared at her tea mug, was it rarely came from the bitterest of enemies. It came from the ones closest to your heart, the people who knew you best. Sherlock Holmes could deduce the dearest wishes of her heart in a blink of his eerie blue-green-golden eyes. He had used her feelings against her time and time again. Complimenting her hair style to get her to pull corpses back out. Telling her he needed her so he could fake his death, nearly killing John, _his best friend_ , in the process.

The worst bit was he knew exactly what he had done and what he could do and would do in the future. But he was either unwilling or unable to stop himself.

_One day, he will completely turn your life so upside down you won’t ever be able to right it._

_All I do is hurt you… forgive me…_

Molly sipped her tea, knowing she had forgiven him before he had even asked. It wasn’t in her nature to hold a grudge. But it was time, to let him go, to give up her cocaine.

She would never regret helping save his life during the Fall. How could she? He was brilliant and flawed and malicious and loyal. Hateful and loving. Human. Of course she had to save him.

Even if he hadn’t been all she thought he was, he was still worth saving.

Now she needed to save herself, to take care of herself so she could take care of her child.

For the first time since seeing that pink plus sign, a tiny smile born of joy and excitement appeared on her lips. She finally allowed herself to feel happy. “I’m going to be a mum,” she told Toby as she stroked his tabby fur. Toby purred his approval. 

If her child turned out to be a proper genius, well… she knew who to thank for that, didn’t she?

Yes, everything was upside down now. 

The butterflies had flown away.

She was OK with that, with all of that. 

Because a backbone had grown where a wishbone used to be.

~*~ The End ~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Sherlolly is extremely out of my comfort zone, so thank you very much for the kind comments and the kudos and most of all, for reading!
> 
> And, as always, thank you for cadogan for beta'ing for me. Poor thing has to see my first drafts.... they ain't pretty. :^0
> 
> Have a great week everyone! :^)


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